One Split Second: The Death of David Hookes and the Trial of Zdravko Micevic (New South)

OnSplitSecond01 31/8/06 3:32 PM Page i ONE SPLIT SECOND After working as a lawyer for a number of years, Michelle S...

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ONE SPLIT SECOND

After working as a lawyer for a number of years, Michelle Schwarz decided to make the move from law to writing. She has written in a number of areas, including educational and academic books, as well as a book for children, which has been sold in the USA and Canada, as well as Australia.

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ONE SPLIT SECOND The death of David Hookes and the trial of Zdravko Micevic

M I C H E L L E S C H WA R Z

NEW SOUTH

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A New South book Published by University of New South Wales Press Ltd University of New South Wales Sydney NSW 2052 AUSTRALIA www.unswpress.com.au © Michelle Schwarz 2006 First published 2006 This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be addressed to the publisher. National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry Schwarz, Michelle, 1966- . One split second: the death of David Hookes and the trial of Zdravko Micevic. Includes index. ISBN 0 86840 947 2. 1. Hookes, David, 1955-2004 - Death and burial. 2. Micevic, Zdravko - Trials, litigation, etc. 3. Trials (Manslaughter) - Victoria - Melbourne - Case studies. 4. Cricket players - Victoria - Melbourne - Biography. 5. Bouncers - Victoria - Melbourne - Biography. I. Title. 364.1525 Design Ruth Pidd Cover photo Newspix Cover design Di Quick Printer Griffin

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This book is for the Schwarz, Danos and Tammer families and for Adrienne Barrett, Natasha Coleman and Kate Ryan with gratitude

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CONTENTS

Preface Acknowledgements

ix xiii

One split second Time The memorial service Death, public grief and celebrity The trial and the verdict The media Hatred and the media Brian Rolfe The media and protecting one’s own Matthew Ricketson Chris Harms The media and mythology Women Respect and decency Zdravko Micevic Cricket Gideon Haigh Gerard Healy

1 3 5 13 25 26 29 38 46 56 58 62 69 71 76 84 89 95

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Death and the ordinary Rob Zadow Alcohol The Supreme Court of Victoria Truth Setting the scene The Beaconsfield Hotel Robert Cassell Sight and sound Sue-Anne Hunter Terry Cranage Christine Padfield Greg Shipperd Tania Plumpton Darren Lehmann Roger Sweet The accused Wayne Phillips Nuts and Amazons Justice Philip Cummins Joseph Robilotta Anthony Perks Closing addresses Middle age and mid-life crisis Race Bleeding in public David Hookes’s body Men in white Reaching the end

97 101 103 113 115 124 135 140 146 148 154 158 161 163 170 176 180 188 190 194 197 201 205 210 215 218 221 227 229

Notes

231

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PREFACE

History is the chronicling of life’s small events as well as the big ones and, once unpicked, huge themes come tumbling out of seemingly small moments. A drunken brawl outside a pub can be as significant as any world-scale event in what it reveals about us. The public response to the death of David Hookes drew me, someone who has never played or followed sport, to his story. Once I began interviewing and researching, the project took an unexpected path. No longer was my question ‘Who was David Hookes?’ but instead a whole new world dealing with the deeper questions of life opened up before me. And then there was the process itself. The interviews were the highlight for me. Each interview was a joy and a privilege. Interviewing is an intimate process, especially over something as emotionally charged as a death. You meet with people, often more than once, share a coffee, sometimes a meal, discuss many things the way one would with a friend. There are a few interviews which, after a great deal of thought, I left out of this book. I had felt that they were too exposing and I was concerned that the subjects would at some stage regret having the words they spoke in grief being locked forever in print.

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A friend of Hookes spoke at length about how for a short period after Hookes’s death he took to sleeping in parks, as his home reminded him too much of Hookes. I was the only person he had ever spoken to about his beloved friend’s death. Uneasily for me the interview had shades of a therapy session and at the last minute I removed it from the book. Although the man was aware that his words were being captured for my endeavours by the tape recorder I had deliberately placed right under his nose, he nevertheless went on in an emotional stream of consciousness. It was hard: writing can be like pulling teeth and it hurt to see three pages disappear with one flick of the delete key. I also felt that his views were valuable in demonstrating how adored David Hookes was by his friends. However, along with the words it erased, the delete key also removed a burden from my shoulders. I kept imagining people asking him about what he had said, making him forever prise his wounds open. I think the interviews that I had were unusually open partly because of the intensity of emotions a death elicits, partly because my interviews were usually free-flowing rather than formally structured, but mainly because in the cricket world I was the least connected, totally unnetworked of people. Before the death of David Hookes I knew nothing about cricket and had not heard of any of the players. I was a total outsider and my anonymity made it easy for them to talk to me. Another issue I faced was that, before I had began writing, there had been two very controversial pieces of journalism based on David Hookes’s death, and many of the people I approached for my book had already been approached for these pieces. The first was an episode of ABC’s Australian Story and the second was a feature piece about David Hookes in the Australian’s magazine. One referred to the relationship between Hookes and his girlfriend and the other painted Hookes in what many of his friends viewed as a negative light. His friends were cautious about yet another probing of their inner world. They inspired me to write

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Preface

xi

with as much rigour and respect as was humanly possible. I followed a sequence of events starting with a cricket match and ending in a trial. Through this process the great lessons of life presented themselves to me: our impermanence, the preciousness of our brief time here, and that underneath our exteriors we are all the same, irrespective of the worlds we move in. The result of my journey is this book.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The most heartfelt acknowledgement is to the insightful and generous people I interviewed for this book. This includes those whose interviews I did not include as well as those who chose to remain anonymous. Huge thanks to my family. Thanks to those who helped with the demands I faced along the way: Henry Schwarz and Tori Taft. Thanks to Tom Danos for his input. Thanks to Gideon Haigh and Nick Whittock for their great assistance in explaining the game of cricket to me. Thanks to John Elliot and the team from University of New South Wales Press and my editor Susan Keogh. Thanks to Kate Ryan for her superb reading of my manuscript. Thanks to the other half of my writer’s group: Kim Rubenstein. Thanks to Fay Burstin and Ian Gold for their assistance with my research. Thanks to the St Kilda Library. Biggest thanks of course to the wonderful Tony, Raphael and Marnie.

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ONE SPLIT SECOND

‘You are charged that on the nineteenth of January 2004 you killed David Hookes.’ ‘Yes, Your Honour.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS TRIAL OF

TO

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC,

DAY ONE OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

In one split second the lives of two people change forever. One man’s life ends. The other becomes the man who killed David Hookes. Almost every death sets a complex, clumsy range of emotions churning in the hearts of the people who were connected to the deceased. Shock, anger, guilt. Long lists of Things I Wish I’d Said. The initial flurry of activity immediately following a death can have an uplifting, life-affirming feel to it. The silence once the activity has abated can create a crushing emptiness, a deep, desperate loneliness. A death raises fears of our own mortality, a frightening sense of being the next in line. Of course each death is also unique. The complex responses evoked by a suicide are vastly different from those felt after the peaceful passing of an elderly great-grandparent. What happens in our society today if a popular charismatic celebrity dies? What happens if he dies prematurely, in the prime

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of a rich and active life after an unfortunate, foolish incident? The astonishing events that followed the death of David Hookes tell us a great deal about who we are as a society, our priorities and our values. In January 2004 David Hookes died after a fight with Zdravko Micevic, a security guard working at the Beaconsfield Hotel, the pub where David Hookes and his friends were drinking. Both Hookes and Micevic were wearing white clothing that evening. To those who knew, loved and admired Hookes, it was a devastating tragedy. To those who didn’t know him, it was another alcohol-fuelled night of violence. To the sporting community, it was the loss of a crucial family member, a beloved and admired cricketer and friend. To his family, a crushing blow from which it is unlikely they will ever recover. To the lawyers, a highprofile case. To the sociologists, a statistic. To the media, a time to extract revenge from Zdravko Micevic, the young man whose former life died along with David Hookes.

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TIME

‘We will spend the next two or three weeks dissecting an overall incident that perhaps took ten or fifteen minutes and an ultimate event that took perhaps a second’. TERRY FORREST,

DAY THREE OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

An atom is a tiny particle, invisible to the human eye, measuring about a ten-millionth of a millimetre across. One could easily think that this minute building block was the smallest physical element in existence but inside the atom there is a vast and busy world: there are electrons, which are less than a thousandth of the mass of the tiniest atom and there is a nucleus with a diameter one hundred thousand times smaller than the atom’s diameter. Like Russian dolls, there is more to be found in these little subatomic specks. Inside the nucleus there are protons and neutrons. They are so small they have no colour: being smaller than the wavelength of visible light means that light just passes over them without pausing to register colour. Similarly one second is a mere flicker of time, not much longer than the amount of time it takes to blink. The build up to David Hookes’s death took fifteen minutes, the fight immediately

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prior to his death took two minutes of which around seven seconds were witnessed, and it took less than a second for Micevic to punch David Hookes, ending his life. Time warped with Hookes’s death: from one tiny fleck of time flowed the hugeness of grief and pain, a complex court case, two legal teams, tens of thousands of mourners and families that will struggle in debt for many years with legal bills. Our usual time scale has been distorted. Events of such magnitude should be spread over a lifetime rather than squashed into a few minutes: they are much too vast to be contained in something so small.

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THE MEMORIAL SERVICE

‘I thought the description of occupation for the deceased, Mr Hookes, ought to be cricket coach and media broadcaster.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS OF

TO

RAY ELSTON,

DAY ONE OF THE TRIAL

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Cricket poet Nick Whittock wrote the poem ‘Adelaide Oval’, in which he says of Adelaide, ‘This city exists only so that the Adelaide Oval may exist’.1 David Hookes would have shared this sentiment, having called his beloved Adelaide Oval, the site of so many of his sporting achievements, his ‘spiritual home’. On 27 January 2004 Hookes arrived at the Adelaide Oval for the last time: his memorial service. An audience of ten thousand people gathered to farewell him and many thousands more, of which I was one, watched the televised service at home. It was a hot sunny day and most of the crowd were wearing sunglasses. People held their memorial cards over their heads as makeshift sunhats and squinted into the glaring sun. Mountains of flowers lay on the grounds, helpless gestures from grieving fans. A home-made banner saying ‘Hookesy’ hung from the fence; the scoreboard that had once tallied Hookes’s runs carried the message:

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David Hookes 1955–2004 Rest in Peace

Ubiquitous television personality Eddie McGuire opened the proceedings. ‘We say farewell to David Hookes, a champion of cricket, media and life. He was a people’s man. It’s very sad but it’s uplifting that so many people are here.’ Neil Mitchell, Melbourne radio broadcaster and a colleague of David Hookes, joined in. ‘The stands are full … this is the people’s cathedral in a sense, the Adelaide Oval in the city of churches. There is a feeling of reverence and celebration, Hookesy would have loved this.’ Eddie’s familiar voice continued, ‘We should call it a crowd because that’s what David performed in front of, crowds’. The camera panned around the huge gathering, pausing on the luminaries as well as the lesser lights. It was certainly a highpowered affair, reflecting the position Hookes had occupied prior to his death. High-profile media commentators, state governors, premiers, ministers, famous actors and elite sportspeople, all looking sombre and stricken. One seat in the crowd was left empty, symbolically reserved for Pat Hookes, David Hookes’s mother who had died less than a year earlier. It was the seat that Pat had always sat in, match after match, proudly watching her youngest boy shine. ‘Pat’s death shocked David badly’, McGuire told the crowd. Pat Hookes had been described to me by many people as a ‘tough but remarkable’ woman who unsurprisingly, produced a tough but remarkable son. There is a photograph of Pat Hookes, taken in 1975, on my desk. Pat is in her kitchen wearing white slacks and a shirt adorned with orange, white and brown spiral swirls. Her short grey hair is brushed neatly back off her face as she stands next to her son David, one hand on his shoulder. Her other hand holds a jug of milk which she is pouring into a bowl of cereal David is poised to eat. She is smiling, looking down as she pours. David

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The memorial service

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Hookes is twenty years old and staring straight at the camera, grinning. He holds a spoon in his hand, ready to scoop up his breakfast. The scene is one of old-fashioned domesticity: a traditional mother still enjoying looking after her grown-up son. The kitchen décor screams psychedelic 1970s: the cereal bowl is resting on an orange-and-brown floral place-mat. On the curtains behind Pat rows of brown, orange and red flowers blare. On the oval stood something else to catch the eye. Every time there was a break during a cricket match, David Hookes would lean his bat on one of the stumps and hang his cap on one of the others. Over the years this small idiosyncrasy had become quintessentially his. This is when the true power of objects emerges: their real significance lies in who they represent and the meaning they once held. The stumps that Hookes had last used were set up the way Hookes always left them, cap and bat in place. This small re-creation of Hookes’s tradition was being immortalised: the holy trinity of bat, cap and wicket was being made into a trophy for future cricket matches between South Australia and Victoria. Although we are largely a secular society we are still drawn to the rituals and symbols of worship, especially in times of despair. The theme of the service was as much about cricket as it was about David Hookes, emphasising how completely entwined and immersed in the game he was. He had joked that ‘cricket was his life’ and fittingly cricket was omnipresent in his death. The hearse carrying David Hookes’s coffin drove on to the oval and, as it slowly circled the ground, the crowd stood, applauding. Neil Mitchell and Eddie McGuire reminisced about Hookes, his matches, his skill as a tennis player, his runs, his centuries. ‘He took risks and faced the consequences’, said Mitchell. As well as his sheer determination, Hookes had been a lateral thinker and had possessed an ability to move forward by extending himself in a resourceful, original and imaginative way from his youth. He had been left-handed and had said how, as a child watching the cricket on television, ‘I’d take the mirror off

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the lounge-room wall and put it opposite the TV so that Ian Chappell, Doug Walters and my other heroes were batting lefthanded like me, and I’d try to play the same shots as they did’.2 After the memorial service, Hookes’s close friend and former coach Denis Brien sent me a letter and a folder of newspaper clippings about Hookes. Brien has the most beautiful cursive handwriting with looped letters, swirls and flourishes. On the front of the folder he typed in large capital letters a few words describing his friend. They were: Mate Consummate entertainer Larrikin Legend Cricketer in excelsis

Under these words, written in small italics was a phrase Hookes liked quoting: We’re not here for a long time, but we’re here for a good time.

This quote came up many times during the memorial service. It had, of course, now been imbued with deep poignancy, the prophecy of someone who died too young. Denis Brien also told a story about the sheer force of Hookes’s vivacious personality that saw him manage to talk his way into England despite having lost his passport: Hookes bantered and joked with the customs officials who eventually let him through. Three priests marched in front of the hearse in their long white cassocks, one bearing an ornate gold cross on a pole. Six men, Hookes’s close friends and relatives, carried the coffin from the hearse to a small bench and Darren Lehmann, a cricketer and close friend of Hookes who was with him when he died, placed Hookes’s bat on the coffin, which also bore a large framed photograph of a much younger David Hookes.

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9

Reverend Steven Ogden, Dean of Adelaide’s St Peter’s Cathedral, led the service. Neil Mitchell had said that Reverend Ogden was one of Hookes’s great fans. The Reverend spoke in a clear deep voice: We are conscious of an inherent tension … we want to celebrate his life, thank God for his talent and compassion, but we are reeling with the shock and pain of his recent tragic death. David was profoundly spiritual. He taught his children Kristofer and Caprice to say the Lord’s Prayer, the old version with thees and thous. It was very important to him … Nothing has prepared us for David’s death and we are confronted rudely and painfully with the fragile nature of human existence. What do we do? Do we get angry with God? Bad things happen to good people.

I thought: that’s only part of the picture, Reverend. Bad things and good things happen to both good and bad people. That is the mad randomness of life, that’s what keeps us on our toes, vulnerable. Next came the eulogies: tearful, loving words from Hookes’s friends, family and team-mates. Sign-language translators stood nearby and with their dancing hands and dramatic faces interpreted the sadness. His family spoke: half-brother Terry Cranage (Pat’s son from her previous marriage), and his children Caprice and Kristofer. Kristofer was more tentative, nervous and less composed than his sister. He spoke about his father’s dogs, naming each one. Kristofer remembered how no matter where they were, people would always come up to Hookes saying ‘Hi David’, and his response would be ‘G’day mate, how are you going?’ Author Garry Linnell has written about another Australian sportsman who struggled with fame and observed that ‘only the shrewdest and the smartest seem to be comfortable with fame, to know how to make it work for them’.3 But fame suited Hookes. Many of his friends talked about how well he responded to the fans constantly approaching him on the street, always with easygoing friendliness and good-natured enthusiasm.

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After the memorial service I met with a very close friend of Hookes, a man who told me that he would never recover from the death of his loveable mate. ‘What was he like?’ I asked ‘Why was he so popular?’ His friend sighed. His hands gestured, ‘Where do I begin?’ ‘It was just terrific to be in his company. He was a larrikin, he was so funny, such an incredible raconteur and he loved cricket more than most people loved their sport. He lit up so many lives through his radio show. It was just such a great loss for so many people, all the many, many people that Hookes had touched. He was clever, very skilled, very talented and he had movie-star status very early. He was one of the first products of the media – his efforts in the Centenary Test match made him a celebrity. Mainly though, he was a great bloke, just a fantastic, great bloke.’ A song was played: Bryan Adams’s ‘Everything I do, I do it for you,’ which Eddie McGuire told the crowd was ‘a special song for Robyn [Hookes’s estranged wife] and David’. As the music played the camera focused on Hookes’s cap and bat on the wicket draped with flowers. Next came an image of his face, enlarged to mammoth proportions on a billboard, superimposed on a background of clouds as if floating in heaven. A montage of photographs followed, accompanied by the Robbie Williams song ‘Angel’. An image of Hookes with his bat raised in the air, one knee bent forward, just having thumped the ball, mid-motion. An image of him young, wearing a cricket jumper, his confident handsome face, staring with a smile at the camera, an image of him with a shaggy beard, laughing with team-mates as they celebrated a win. All the photographs of him celebrating a win were now, with the bitter knowledge of history, laden with sadness because it was while celebrating a win that David Hookes died. The images kept coming: Hookes kissing a cricket bat, Hookes behind a microphone, Hookes kissing Caprice, Robyn Hookes with her arm draped around David Hookes’s shoulder.

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Reverend Ogden swung burning incense over the casket, evoking the sense of a deep, powerful ancient ritual. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Family members each put a yellow rose on the casket, kissing them before laying them down. The televising of their private pain seemed a fitting end to a very public life. The coffin was loaded into the hearse and Hookes’s bat was placed on top of coffin. The hearse drove off led by the priests who marched in front with their heads bowed. The crowd stood once again as David Hookes left the oval for the last time. After watching the memorial service I met with Cos Cardone, the Executive Producer of Channel Nine Sport and also the Executive Producer of David Hookes’s memorial service. Hookes’s death had shaken him to the core. ‘I knew David, we’d both moved to Melbourne from Adelaide to pursue media work’, he said. ‘When he died Eddie McGuire and I decided to televise the funeral. The network thought it was a good idea and for days and days we just worked on the funeral and the arrangements. The attention everyone paid to detail was incredible. Someone drove the hearse around the Adelaide Oval to time how long it would take. The South Australian department in charge of protocol was also involved, which is standard for such a massive event with all the VIPs. We consulted with his family and close friends about the images and songs and who’d speak. As the Executive Producer sometimes by speaking to people you get an idea of how to go about it. I spoke a lot to Robyn and to David’s kids about what they were going to say. I wanted to tell them that it was important for me to be conscious of the family’s wishes. Look.’ Cardone swivelled around to a board on the wall behind him. He unpinned a small white card and handed it to me. In large round letters was written: Dear Eddie and Cos Thank-you for the dignity you have shared with the family. David loved you both. With friendship and love Robyn Hookes

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I handed it back to Cardone and he looked at it silently for a moment before pinning it back in its place. He continued: ‘I spoke to the priest about the symbols he was going to use. I wrote the running order. I put a lot of thought into it, a lot was personal. Eddie and I wanted to do a really good job. The funeral wasn’t about ratings or revenue, it was commercial-free. We had to capture what was important, to have respect and to try to capture David. For example, it was important for us to show his great mate Gerard Healy. It was really one of the greatest gatherings of all the cricket families, all the great faces were there. Eddie and I were teary for a lot of the time. I thought we did a nice job, we really threw ourselves into it and tried our very best.’ ‘How would you describe David Hookes?’ I asked Cardone. ‘What was he like?’ Cardone leant back in his swivel chair. ‘He was my hero, my absolute hero. He was the ultimate blonde, brash, ball-bashing hero. He was so infectious and flamboyant. We all would have liked to play cricket like him, he was so gifted, such a natural. We all wished we had a little bit of Hookesy in us. He represented a lot of things a lot of us wished we were. So gung-ho, so fantastic.’ He shook his head and exhaled loudly, suddenly looking drained and tired.

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DEATH, PUBLIC GRIEF AND CELEBRITY

‘There had been widespread media coverage of both the fact that he’d passed away and the events that had led up to it.’ TERRY FORREST, DAY SEVEN OF THE TRIAL OF ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Sports historian Wray Vamplew has written about the adulation of sportsmen who have died while at their sporting peaks. There was the death in 1991 of Collingwood footballer Darren Millane. Millane was a champion, prize-winning player who died at the age of twenty-six years when he drove a car while intoxicated and crashed into a truck. Eddie McGuire commented at the time on the size of the funeral and the number of memorial notices. ‘They showed how much this country loves the larrikin. His death brought out a rare outpouring of emotion … The city, it seemed, grieved for months.’ Even as early as 1894 when jockey Tom Corrigan died from injuries received during the Caulfield Grand National Steeplechase, thousands of mourners lined the funeral route from his Caulfield home to the Melbourne cemetery. Boxer Les Darcy had left Australia under a cloud, many believing that he had fled to avoid conscription and earn money overseas. He was accused of cowardice and avarice, but ‘in death all was forgiven and Australian sports fans awarded Darcy martyr status’.4

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There was of course the 2001 death of Sir Donald Bradman, although he died at the age of ninety-two of natural causes after having lived a long and healthy life. Thousands of fans lined the streets of Adelaide to farewell him. News of his death completely dominated television, radio and newspaper reports. Brett Hutchins in his book on Don Bradman5 writes that: Bradman stories spilled well outside the boundaries of routine media coverage and tributes, dedications and specials poured forth. Flags were flown at half mast and newspaper headlines announced ‘A Nation’s Farewell’, ‘Death of a Legend’, ‘The Nation Loses its Hero’, ‘Nation Mourns the Great Don’. In a mixture of obituary, nationalism, politics, myth, nostalgia and history, the life and times of Bradman was reviewed. Public veneration flowed in letters to newspaper editors, on talk-back radio, and via on-line forums.

When David Hookes died the intensity of grief demonstrated by the public was overwhelming. Flowers carpeted the site of his death, and callers to talk-back radio sobbed on air as they described how they felt about his loss. Many, many letters of condolence were sent by fans from around Australia: With your death part of me has died. I never met you Hookesy but I will miss you forever. Hookesy, I miss you and my life will never be the same. I will forever grieve your passing, Mr Hookes. I never met you but I feel so empty inside. I still cry for you every day Hookesy. You remain in my heart forever even though we never met. You were our legend Hookesy and our lives are less without you.

The depth of pain felt over Hookes’s death appeared to be as intense as, say, the depth of pain the fans would feel over the death of their mother, partner or best friend. I began thinking about the notion of feeling what appeared to be deep grief for a virtual stranger. What did it mean? Where was

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all that pain coming from? Most of us have felt on many occasions a deep sadness evoked by an event that had no direct bearing on our lives, but was nevertheless devastating. Who wouldn’t have been moved and sad reading about the loss of life in the 2004 tsunami, the children left without parents, and seeing news footage of that wall of water ploughing over all those buildings? People were galvanised into action and record amounts of money were given to tsunami aid worldwide. But a generalised sadness is different to an apparently real and deep grief for an individual whom you have never met. I had always thought of grief as a very personal emotional pain, related to the death of someone close. The terms ‘grieving widow’ and ‘grieving parent’ all made sense to me. A deep, gutwrenching anguish borne of the knowledge you will never again see someone you loved. The agony of the absence of someone real, tangible and precious I understood. But grieving for a celebrity you had never met? Someone you had perhaps only ever seen on television? The journalist Jeremy Seabrook contemplates the public grieving for famous strangers. He theorises that the pain is borne from idealising someone who will never be real and comments: Are the emotions more pure when they flow in a one-way direction to objects who never disappoint, never let us down, never fail to offer a mixture of entertainment, emulation and hope? We are sheltered from any reciprocal interaction; our relationship with them remains untainted by actual contact.6

Was this part of the response to Hookes’s death? Hookes always delivered what was expected of him: the talented kid from South Australia made good, the Aussie larrikin with a beer in hand, always up for an outrageous opinion and a good time. Good old Hookesy. Of course, those who were in Hookes’s life in a real sense knew what went on beneath this image. The real David. They knew what made him feel sad and happy. Those who were

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really close to him may have known his hopes and aspirations, his private shames and embarrassments, the parts of himself he hated, his awful childhood moments, his small vanities and the resentments he may have felt towards his parents. All those varied and complex feelings that comprise a real human being. The feelings that lie beneath the image that the person, together with the media, constructs over time to show the public. The Hookes fans had fallen in love with the confident, blokesy, wise-cracking image. It was clichéd but it was consistent, uncomplicated and reliable. Now their cliché had been taken away from them in tragic circumstances. To learn more about celebrity grief I turned to the Internet, and searched for ‘grieving for a celebrity’. Hundreds of headings were revealed. Article after article told tales of people sobbing outside Graceland’s white picket fence on the anniversary of Elvis’s death, described the flowers on Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris and the suicide attempts after the death of grunge-rocker Kurt Cobain. Most enlightening were a batch of articles from a teen-advice website. The articles covered the response of a number of young people to the death of the American pop singer Aaliyah, killed in a plane crash in 2001, at the height of her musical career. She was twenty-two years old. The following view was typical: For teens, celebrities can feel like family. Teens often tie much of their identity to their favorite celebrity. They buy merchandise created or endorsed by the celebrity, they dress like the star … and in doing so they adopt a part of that person. So when a favorite celebrity dies you mourn … You may not have known the celebrity personally, but they were an intimate part of your life, it is natural and normal for you to feel sad. You have lost something; you gave the star your respect and admiration, and in return you got joy. Now the source of that joy is gone, and you have every right to feel a loss.

It is easy to extrapolate this thinking to the mourning of David Hookes’s fans. They were experiencing the adult version of the

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sentiments felt for the deceased pop star. Australians love sport: watching, playing and talking about it. Hookes had risen from a modest working-class background to fame, wealth and a seemingly charmed existence through his sporting prowess. The ultimate dream for so many. It is easy to imagine Hookes fans as boys who loved backyard cricket, did well in the school cricket team, but then went on to an ordinary office job, a poorly paid trade or drudgery in the factory. Hookes was their ‘what if’, their fantasy, what they might have been had things turned out just a bit differently. I mused over this analysis. The teenagers grieving Aaliyah were in their vulnerable, hormonal, formative years. They were practically children and their response was understandable. The fans writing to the papers, filling the memorial service and saying that their lives would forever be bereft were adults. What else was going on for them? Chris Hall, the Director of the Centre for Grief and Bereavement, based at the Monash University Medical Centre, spoke to me about grief. Slightly incongruously with his profession he is an affable, upbeat and cheerful man. ‘Grief’, he explained, ‘generates a huge amount of anxiety. Especially so when it comes to sudden, tragic or premature deaths. This sort of grief challenges our intrinsic beliefs about the world. We intrinsically believe that we will all live to a ripe old age. A sudden death challenges this belief. We intrinsically believe we will have some sort of awareness that a death is imminent, such as a loved one being very old. A sudden death makes us realise we can die in an instant. These realisations are tremendously frightening and people struggle to cope.’ Later I wondered if this was part of what people experienced when Hookes died: a challenge to their understandable belief that a fit, healthy sportsman with a larger-than-life personality would never die so easily. One punch from a 21-year-old and he was gone. After all, if someone like Hookes, so strong and powerful,

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could be snuffed out in a snap, what of the rest of us – ordinary, unfit and average? It was a reminder of how fragile we all are. Hall and I moved on to celebrity grief. ‘How is it’ I asked, ‘that someone can feel grief at the death of someone they have never met?’ ‘People,’ said Hall ‘are hard-wired to feel attachments. For example, look at the way people attach to their football team. They say things like “We did well last week” or “We lost by three goals”. The desire to attach is absolutely innate. Many people struggle with being able to separate from their attachments. Grief is part of that struggle. ‘Most people think of grief as being exclusive to kin relationships, but that’s not the case. Attachments can build up over an accumulation of information, times and identification. One doesn’t necessarily require kin, or even a physical presence, for an attachment to form. For example, think about the relationship a relinquishing mother has with the child she gave away for adoption. Even though the mother may have had no contact with the child, she still may feel very connected to it, celebrate the child’s birthday and have other special rituals. Even though she may not have seen the child for, say, thirty years, if she were to learn that the child had died her grief may be as intense as that of a mother who had brought up her child.’ ‘So a genuine attachment doesn’t necessarily require any physical proximity at all?’ I asked. ‘That’s right. Think of the relationship some people have with God. It’s been carefully nurtured over time. There is a set of rituals surrounding the relationship. However, there is no feedback. No physicality. Just a strong attachment.’ ‘I suppose that’s how people who had never met David Hookes could mourn him so deeply,’ I said. ‘Over the many years of following his career, watching him play, listening to him on the radio, reading about him, soaking up the gossip he featured in, watching him move from being a player to a commentator and coach. I suppose over time that would lead to a strong attachment forming.’

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‘Definitely. Many people would have built up an internalised relationship with Hookes that spanned many years. Decades. Especially in a country as sport-obsessed as Australia. An attachment to a sporting hero could be a real and intense one.’ To further illustrate his point Hall handed me an article. I read it, marvelling, later that evening. The article was written by an American journalist called Russell Friedman, co-founder of an organisation called the Grief Recovery Institute, and the author of The Grief Recovery Handbook. The article described the grief felt by a woman he encountered at the death of the television star Michael Landon, who featured in Highway to Heaven. Friedman asked her if she was a friend of the star. She replied: ‘No, but he was like a father for my children.’ She went on to explain that her husband had died two years before in an accident. She worked all day and several night shifts cleaning houses to support herself and her three young children. In the short time she had each day with her children, the one activity they enjoyed as a family was watching Highway to Heaven. She added: Mr Landon’s character on that show has become a kind of father figure and role model for my children. They barely remember their father because they were so young when he died. They desperately need someone to look up to. When I heard Mr Landon was very sick I was afraid to tell my children, I didn’t want them to worry. But now he has died I have to tell them. I am so afraid of how they will react when they find out.

Friedman went on to comment that while technically this woman had never met Michael Landon: the emotionally accurate answer is that she and her children knew him and his TV character very well. They’d just never met him … His death robbed them of the hope of someday meeting this … man who had been their surrogate husband and father.

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There were similar messages for Hookes posted on the Internet: Even though I never met you I feel like I grew up with you. My life will never be the same and I will miss you forever.

I reflected that as well as Friedman’s analysis there was another factor at play: the isolation and lack of support that is endemic today; the lack of community. That woman with just the television to keep her and her children company. This is something that I had instantly felt was part of the public’s response to Hookes’s death. The social commentator Patrick West wrote in his book Conspicuous Compassion: Despite being healthier, and better-off … we are not happier. Rather, we are more depressed than ever. [W]e have become … lonely. Binding institutions such as the church, marriage, the family and the nation have withered in the post-war era. We have become a community of strangers. The collapse of the close social networks that characterised our ancestors is a major cause of low-serotonin problems: depression, aggression, compulsions. 7

I drew a breath of recognition when I came across West’s view that ‘When the crowd is in the mood for collective caring, mob violence will invariably follow. A society that feels it normal to send flowers to perfect strangers will also feel it acceptable to throw stones at them too’. Zdravko Micevic had been ducking those stones for just over a year. When he was charged with the manslaughter death of David Hookes, Micevic was nearly buried under an avalanche of hatred vented by the public. The Micevic family home had been set on fire in the middle of the night. This was the home his parents had bought, where Micevic, his mother, father and brother lived. The constant attacks had meant that they had to sell the house and move elsewhere. Micevic’s car was vandalised. ‘You’re Dead Wog’ was sprayed on the street near Micevic’s

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home. Death threats poured in from all over Australia. Micevic, his family, anyone sharing his last name, was bombarded with them. Members of his legal team, his barristers, his solicitors, received death threats and hate mail almost daily. I visited several online forums dedicated to David Hookes and read the following: National hero killed by a king hit from the scum of the world, a bouncer. They should hang him from the West Gate Bridge. Let’s get the mongrel and give it to him. For those of you interested in giving the killer a little reminder, here is his name and address. Wouldn’t it be nice to apply a few ‘cover drives’ to the face of Mr Micevic until he too met his maker.

On and on they went, hundreds of little drops of poison, written in the informal style of Internet users. Most were threatening violence, some called for the reintroduction of the death penalty, some described the various physical acts of harm that they would like to inflict on Micevic, and others were just spewing abuse. I had thought that the degree of anger the Micevic haters expressed must have had more to do with anger at their own lives, their own pain and disappointments, than anger at Micevic. It was much less painful to direct anger at another person. Micevic, slayer of a sporting icon, was perfect for the job. The whipping boy receiving his flogging from the lonely, the isolated and the angry. West coined the term ‘Mourning Sickness’, referring to weeping for a deceased celebrity as a catharsis for our own unhappiness. ‘Mourning Sickness’, West wrote, is a ‘symptom of an underlying malaise in society; the string of unfortunate dead celebrities merely become conduits through which to channel it’. The saddest condolence message I read was on the Cricket Victoria condolence page and fitted in with West’s view: When me and my mother and father left Melbourne in 1980 to live in Greece I was twelve years old and the memories I

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took with me to Greece were of my … cricket heroes of the time. My mother died four years later and there was a lot of pain and sorrow for me so when I was alone I always remembered Australia and the times my father took me to see cricket matches. I never met David Hookes but I always thought of him as part of my family. Hearing what happened made me feel all this sorrow again. I only wish to say thank you David Hookes for the greatest moments you gave me when I was a little boy watching you play.

Similarly journalist Simon Castles wrote that: Public displays of grief for celebrities are ultimately cries for connection from [people] yearning for company. They demonstrate how desperately in need we are for something to bond over … and are about trying to make ourselves feel better, and little else.8

Hall also handed me a swag of articles about the celebrity grief that eclipsed all others: the death of Lady Diana, the Princess of Wales. The articles described the queues lasting for eight hours on a cold London night when 750 000 people waited to sign one of the forty-two books of condolence, the hundreds of thousands of bunches of flowers left outside Kensington Palace, the shrines set up at the places where Diana ate, exercised and worked. It was, as journalist Pamela Stirling wrote ‘the greatest display of recreational grief the world has ever seen’.9 Of course I remembered her death well. I remember my sadness for her two young boys, rendered motherless. The image that still remains with me is that of her sons walking, heads bowed, eyes at the ground, behind their mother’s coffin, both so disturbingly composed. Perched atop the coffin written, in a child’s wonky letters, the word ‘Mummy’, a goodbye letter to Diana from young Prince William. Parallels between the public response to the deaths of Lady Diana and Hookes have already been noted. Simon Castles called Hookes’s death ‘a national outpouring as intense as any seen in

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Australia since the death of [the] Princess’.10 While conducting Hookes’s memorial service, Neil Mitchell also drew a parallel between the mourning he was witnessing for David Hookes and the outpouring of grief for the Princess of Wales. The Princess of Wales’s public persona was that of a saint, albeit a fallible one. She was frequently photographed donning a hard-hat and visiting landmine sites accompanied by limbless victims. She embraced leprosy sufferers and kissed babies with AIDS. Despite her neuroses, her eating disorders, her complicated love life, she seemed driven by a social conscience. Hookes on the other hand seemed to relish his role as a stirrer. When cricketer Shane Warne was accused of sexual harassment, Hookes described the South African complainant as a ‘hairybacked sheila’: Hookes was certainly insulting – but did not intend the racist overtones that his remarks were credited with. As a commentator at the Australian Open tennis, he described finalist Amelie Mauresmo, one of the contestants, as ‘the halfman, half-woman of France’. His comments were seen as an unflattering reference to her muscular physique. But the Princess of Wales and David Hookes did have something in common: they were both celebrities. Being a celebrity is different to merely being famous. Many people are famous but not celebrities; prime ministers, for instance. John Howard is undoubtedly famous but is not a celebrity. Geoffrey Rush is a famous actor, but Brad Pitt is a celebrity actor. To be a celebrity you must glitter and shine. Celebrities have a charisma that makes people hunger to watch them, to be near them and to bask in their glow. Journalist Phillip Wilkins described Hookes as being ‘spectacular of personality, an irresistible character, a wonderful cricketer and he bore an aura. He glowed in a crowd’.11 Is this why Hookes was a celebrity, that indefinable aura flowing from his charisma, his wit, his talent and his confidence? People have over-the-top responses to celebrities: they form fan clubs for them, they make websites devoted to them, they

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spend a great deal of money buying magazines about them and they have an incredible bank of knowledge about the minutiae of celebrities’ lives. When celebrities die, particularly in tragic circumstances, people’s reactions are extreme.

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THE TRIAL AND THE VERDICT

‘In order to establish manslaughter the prosecution has to prove that the death of David Hookes was brought about by the unlawful and dangerous act of the accused man.’ RAY ELSTON,

DAY ONE OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

The day after Zdravko Micevic punched David Hookes, Micevic was charged with assault. A day later David Hookes died and the charge was upgraded from assault to manslaughter. For the accused to be convicted of manslaughter, the prosecution must demonstrate that the accused’s violence was both unlawful and dangerous. At the trial Micevic was found to have acted in self-defence and was fully acquitted. He is now a free man.

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THE MEDIA

‘If you think that despite your best efforts you are unable to bring an objective mind to bear upon the case, when my associate calls your number you should say ‘excuse’ and I will hear your application to be excused.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS

TO JURORS DAY ONE OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

I had been mesmerised by the media’s response to Hookes’s death. There he was, dominating every media outlet. The prime minister (a known cricket fan), as well as several state premiers, commented on Hookes’s death, expressing sadness and shock. All three hours of his memorial service were broadcast live from the Adelaide Oval. Melbourne’s Herald Sun newspaper devoted twenty-eight pages to Hookes in the week following his death. Prior to Hookes’s death, the newspapers were dominated by an important international story. It had just been revealed that the Australian, the UK and the US governments had been given information about Iraq from their respective Intelligence agencies which they had used as the basis for the 2003 war against Iraq. It had transpired that much of this information was questionable. The raison d’être of a major war was being thrown into doubt.

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After Hookes’s death, this news about the war was relegated to the middle of the papers. It had lost its front-page status to the story about Hookes. The journalist John Schwartz hypothesises that a factor in all this is the general public’s preference for simplicity over complexity: There was a great deal of complexity involved in coming to terms with the detailed revelations about Intelligence agencies and their operations … The latest reports were certainly not easy to … comprehend and digest. As competitive business[es] … media organisations must always be conscious of their audience’s needs. This includes the … media’s understanding of what their audience members’ capacity is to absorb and maintain interest in complex information. While the news of Hookes’s death was entirely negative, it was at least manageable and straightforward to comprehend.12

Another journalist I interviewed said, ‘We journalists are just pawns, the media owners are the powerful ones. It’s a huge business and all the decisions are made with the shareholders in mind. Hookes’s death blew the Iraq Intelligence story off the front pages not because it was more important, but because Hookes sells papers’. David Hookes was a very successful media man himself. He co-hosted a sports program on Melbourne radio station 3AW, commented on a Foxtel sports show, had been a newspaper columnist and had commentated during cricket tours, the Atlanta Olympics and many other sporting events. His biographer and former South Australian State cricketer Alan Shiell wrote: [H]e was such a natural, supremely competent media performer on radio and television. He was just being himself. He didn’t have to put on a different hat when he went into a radio or TV studio. He was still Hookesy being Hookesy and if you didn’t like it, well too bad. He loved the media, the

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challenges and rewards it offered, the outlet it provided and the people he met through it. He deserved all of his success because as a cricketer he was very good to media people and they liked and respected him for it.13

Journalist Phil Wilkins said that ‘Hookes was the player every journalist and media man, candidly and privately wanted as Australian captain … for his quick wit and spontaneity, for his aggressive leadership … and simply for his vibrant personality’.14 He was adored by his grieving colleagues who subsequently gave his death all the more prominence. This was something I discussed with journalist and lecturer Matthew Ricketson. ‘Journalists routinely act differently to an “insider” than to someone else’, Ricketson said. ‘Count the obituaries that get run each year; journalists are way over-represented. If a correspondent dies in the war that will always get covered. It’s important but it’s disproportionate to the way others are represented. Also, as well as being an insider, David Hookes was a sportsman and a popular, likeable larrikin.’ As David Hookes had lived, breathed and been totally immersed in cricket, the same can be said of his deep entrenchment in the media, and his many media friends shared their grief with their audience.

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HATRED AND THE MEDIA

‘You are Micevic’s guarantee of the justice that we contend so far he has been denied.’ TERRY FORREST

TO JURORS, DAY ELEVEN OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Reading Alice in Wonderland to my daughter, I was struck by the relevance of the Queen’s opinion of justice. She says, referring to the King’s Messenger; ‘He’s in prison now, being punished, and the trial doesn’t even begin till next Wednesday and of course the crime comes last of all.’ Alice wondered: ‘Suppose he never commits the crime?’ ‘That would be all the better, wouldn’t it?’ said the Queen.

Around the time of the committal procedure (a preliminary hearing to assess the evidence) many of our media outlets seemed to share the Queen’s views. ‘Innocent until proven guilty’ is such a well-worn rule of our justice system that it has the ring of a cliché to it. David Hookes’s death shows that many journalists still need to be reminded of the rule’s existence. David Marr from the ABC television show Media Watch said: ‘The really heavy

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work the media did over summer was to convict bouncer Zdravko Micevic for the terrible death of David Hookes’.15 Without having heard any of the evidence, the witness statements or the forensic pathologist’s reports, one radio announcer decided that Micevic did not act in self-defence, and declared on air: If I knew Hookesy it might’ve been a smart quip or whatever. That’d be about all … He would certainly never threaten anyone physically … [S]ome of these people on the door it doesn’t take much to upset them and I tend to think it’s because they’re on the steroids. And that makes people irritable for a start.16

Marr continued, ‘The media databases show a hundred references to Hookes being “bashed” and eighty-five to him being “attacked” in the Victorian media days after his death. The word ‘alleged’ seemed to have all but disappeared’.17 The single punch that Micevic threw, as he claimed, in selfdefence was described in the press as amongst other things: a vicious assault, a savage assault, a savage attack, a brutal bashing. Radio broadcaster Alan Jones puzzled: ‘Why is the bloke accused of all this out on bail? … What’s the point of a thriving economy … if Australians are afraid? What is freedom if you don’t feel free to go to the pub?’18 The descriptions of Micevic himself were interesting in that the initial reporting contained strong parallels with descriptions of someone else who was once hated by the press: Lindy Chamberlain. In 1980 Chamberlain was charged with murdering her baby and was vilified by the media. After a very painful struggle Chamberlain ultimately had her sentence quashed. The book Evil Angels19 showed how Lindy Chamberlain was guilty of little more than needing a spin-doctor to say to her, ‘Look, even though you are crushed inside, weep and cry when you are in public because that’s what the media wants and expects. If you fail to do so you will be severely punished’. Chamberlain’s

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internal, silent grief was deemed unmaternal, cold and hard by the press. After Hookes’s death and around the time of the committal proceedings Micevic was described in similar terms to Chamberlain. Newspapers described him as ‘looking satisfied after he punched Hookes’ and being ‘strongly built, stony faced and staring straight ahead’. During the trial of Lindy Chamberlain a member of the public made a hate call to the court-house, saying ‘I’m going to blow that bitch away’.20 Another caller rang the motel where the Chamberlains were staying and threatened to ‘blow the place apart with a bomb’. These responses from the public were very similar to the public’s initial response to Micevic: the hotel that employed him received bomb threats, his house was burnt, his car vandalised and he was threatened with murder. What is it that brings out the lynch mob in society? There was something so primal and apocalyptic in all these threats of fire and destruction. What role did the media play in all this hatred? Around the time of Micevic’s trial there was an interesting softening in the media which could have been because as a media performer Micevic was the absolute opposite of the blighted Lindy Chamberlain: he behaved as he should. Unlike Chamberlain, Micevic was able to display his pain. He frequently expressed remorse for what happened, saying how devastated he was and how agonised he felt: ‘I wish I were dead’ and ‘I did not mean for anything bad to happen and I honestly wish it was me who died instead of him’, he said. ‘I’ve thought about it everyday. It’s not something I will ever forget.’21 After the trial Micevic said, ‘I’m working as a concreter now and I won’t be going back to working as a bouncer. It’s a horrible job. I wish Hookes’s death hadn’t happened but it did and I can’t turn it around. It was a terrible accident I didn’t mean for anything bad like that to happen and I wish it was me who died’. The bar manager on duty that night, Meagan McNally, was reported saying that after the confrontation Micevic returned to the pub ‘distressed, white

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and close to tears’. Lindy Chamberlain was different from Zdravko Micevic. She kept all of her pain in and as a result was shown no mercy. Author Don Watson wrote that ‘words can lift our understanding to a higher plane … They can inspire love and hope …’22 The Micevic case reveals that the reverse is also true. Words can demean us, make us base and ugly, make us revert from the handsome prince back into the warty toad. Watson wrote that ‘Journalists must choose their own words carefully and skilfully and insist that others do the same. Pictures rule: but words define, explain, express, direct, hold together our thoughts and what we know. They lead us into new ideas and back to older ones’.23 As I read with horror through newspapers and transcripts of radio shows, I increasingly had the image of an animal trainer throwing chunks of raw meat to a pack of hungry feral dogs. The media was catering to the most prejudiced and base sentiments in the population. The Victorian Director of Public Prosecutions, Paul Coghlan, QC, even took the unusual step of releasing the following statement: Paul Coghlan today expressed concerns about the publicity and conjecture surrounding the tragic death of David Hookes. All media outlets are reminded of their responsibilities relating to the law of contempt and to the principle that persons charged with serious criminal offences are entitled to a fair trial.

Hookes had so many close friends writing for newspapers and behind radio microphones who were deeply grieving his loss. Unfortunately there is no formal procedure in place to ensure that whilst being consumed by the grief that naturally accompanies losing a friend in tragic and controversial circumstances, one should not use one’s position to channel grief and risk having it mutate into contagious hatred.

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Steve Price is a radio presenter on the very popular Sydney radio station 2UE. Price was a close friend as well as a colleague of David Hookes, having previously worked with Hookes at Melbourne’s 3AW. After Hookes’s death he had been outspoken in his condemnation of Micevic and of anyone presenting a view differing from his own. A 2UE listener suggested to Steve Price that Hookes may have in some way provoked the fight, which is the defence Micevic successfully used at trial. In response Price broadcast the listener’s phone number, repeatedly invited listeners to ring and insult him, and said the following on air: This abusive and pathetic excuse for a man thinks that you deserve to die for verballing a bouncer. That you deserve to leave behind a wife and children because you had a few beers in a pub. That a career studded with achievement like playing for your nation deserves to end in the gutter at the hands of a serial offender who hit you from behind.

Three months after reading Price’s statement I stood in a phone booth next to the North Sydney swimming pool and rang my publisher. ‘Help’, I said. ‘I’m losing my villains.’ I had just finished interviewing Steve Price and the Price I had met with seemed very different from the Price who had ranted and raved against Micevic on his popular daily radio program. Steve Price has been called ‘a tough guy journalist of the old school’ and ‘the most powerful man in Melbourne radio’.24 He sacked a number of radio personalities in the course of bringing 3AW to the top of the radio industry and in 2000 he left 3AW to become 2UE’s drive-time host.25 We met at a café overlooking the water under the Sydney Harbour Bridge. There was a running track separating the cafe from the water and people jogged and walked past, mothers pushing prams, couples walking arm in arm. A group of high school students jostled by, laughing and pushing. They wore

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school uniforms, sunhats and carried navy blue backpacks. Although all the backpacks were identical, each teenager strove to make theirs individual, some with small toys dangling from the zips, others with their names emblazoned in bold glittery letters. One boy, a tall, laughing, dark-haired adolescent, had a sticker on his backpack proclaiming ‘Shit Happens’. I watched him walk backwards throwing a football back and forth to his friend. Yes, it does happen, I thought. Even to laughing, football-throwing boys like you, the same sort of lively, high-spirited adolescent that David Hookes once was. Steve Price arrived, shook my hand, gave me a friendly smile and we ordered coffee and muffins. Price cut his muffin into small symmetrical pieces and we began talking. I asked him how he felt about the way he spoke about Micevic, all those inflammatory words. I also asked if grieving journalists should step aside because their emotions impaired their ability to be professional. Price claimed the fact that he was grieving in no way impacted on his style. ‘What I said would have been the same for anyone else. That sort of language is just me, the way I speak. It wasn’t because I was grieving for David.’ I handed him a transcript of his radio program and watched him read it. I had expected perhaps a flicker of embarrassment but no, he was indifferent. ‘Yep, that’s what I’d say and I’d say it again. I would have pushed it to the edge if it was David Hookes that had died or anyone else. The reporting was emotional and that was to be expected. He died a violent and unnecessary death.’ ‘How different is the Steve Price on air to the Steve Price off air?’ I asked. ‘It’s just me being me, the Steve on air is the me off-air. Radio is such a personal medium. Because people can’t see you there’s a real demand to talk honestly. You have to let your views come out. Things come up which demand you talk honestly, you can’t pretend, it would be just too bland. Also, there’s no place for dishonesty on the radio. You’d get caught out – you can’t pretend one

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thing then say something different six months later – someone will catch you. Some people are scared to give their views, but I’m not.’ ‘Your job is so powerful’, I said. ‘You’re a shaper of people’s views. Don’t you think you have to be careful with just saying what you think? If you say you hate something, that can be harmful. Isn’t there something to be said for balancing your honesty with your concern for influencing the public?’ ‘No. You may as well get off the air if you’re going to do that. You should just be completely honest. I don’t think there’s anyone on air who’s successful who isn’t honest pretty much all of the time. It’s the intimacy of the medium. The audience are with you everyday. If you pretend to be something you’re not, they’ll soon know.’ ‘Do you see yourself as a shaper of opinions?’ ‘That’s putting what we do too grandly. We help people galvanise what they already think. I really think the impact I have on people is overblown. People have access to lots of different opinions these days. People have the Internet, although maybe the older demographic less so. People under thirty don’t get their opinions from the radio. For people between thirty and sixty it’s divided. I think Bob Hawke was right when he said that we underestimate the intelligence of people out there. Most people are a lot smarter than what we give them credit for. They form their own opinions about things, we’re just a conduit. The most I could say is that I might strengthen their views, they might say “Yes, I agree with that.”’ ABC radio presenter Jon Faine said the following about radio journalists and power: I am often asked what it is like to have so much power. I blanch at the question. I am, obviously, aware that there is potential for power to be exercised in the role I play, but it is not automatic that the muscle is flexed … I do not think it is right for anyone, let alone a radio presenter, a broadcaster to salivate over that role.26

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Hookes himself was well aware of the power the media can yield and knew that he had it at his fingertips. During the fight immediately before his death he threatened to give the pub a ‘spray’ on air and close the pub down by making unfavourable remarks about it on his radio show. This was a threat he had made before. Prior to the trial, Micevic’s defence team were contacted by pub owners reporting similar stories. For example, once when Hookes was not allowed into a pub because he was not dressed in accordance with the pub’s dress code, he threatened to criticise the pub on radio the next day. ‘How did you feel about the jury’s verdict?’ ‘If you support our legal system you can’t criticise the verdict. I wasn’t in court, I wasn’t there at the pub that night. What I reject is that it is ever necessary to kill someone after a dispute, regardless of self-defence. A very good friend of mine didn’t deserve to die. There was unnecessary physical violence from someone who overstepped their job. If there was no physical violence he’d still be here today. David wasn’t a physically violent person. If he was, don’t you think reports of it would have been heard by now given how much he went out? Why would it suddenly happen, just on one night. I’ve been out with David over one hundred times and I’ve never seen him be violent, not once. It would be completely out of character.’ ‘Have you read the court transcripts?’ ‘No way, much too painful.’ ‘Did you ever think that because it is so painful for you, because you were still grieving, it wasn’t right for you to talk about him on air? That because you were grieving someone else should have covered it?’ ‘There’s nothing wrong with people who worked with David paying tribute to him.’ ‘Tribute is one thing, but Micevic’s lawyers said it was the worst case of hate mongering and media bias they had ever seen.’ ‘From my point of view I was balanced. On the day of his death I interviewed a police officer and an eyewitness to the event.

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A very high-profile Australian had died. I was emotional but I still had to deliver the story. I’m not sure what part of the media is ever impartial. Everyone is affected by their life, the people around them. Even the most junior reporter writing an article puts something of themselves in it. I think I’m very tuned in to what the majority of people feel, which is the key to my success. I’m just an ordinary person, so I think I can understand what ordinary people feel. I never tailor my style for an audience. I just say what I feel.’ Our conversation moved to David Hookes, and I soon realised that Price saw himself as something of a kindred spirit to Hookes. ‘I had a particular fondness for David, I convinced him to move from Adelaide to Melbourne. He was so honest and open on air. He had strong opinions, like I do. Of all our broadcasters it was David and me that most marginalised our audiences. Some people really loved us and some really hated us, there was no grey, no middle ground. David and I both understood people. We were both born in 1955, in Adelaide, both went to state schools. Both Adelaide boys who succeeded despite being born there. There are quite a few similarities there.’ Our interview drew to a close. Price was friendly, easy company. He was straightforward and gave the impression of being totally comfortable with himself. He answered every question, even the unpleasant ones, with absolute directness, responded easily to my criticisms and didn’t try to skirt any issues. I left liking him.

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BRIAN ROLFE

‘Putting aside previous publicity is not as hard as it sounds, first because each of you swears or affirms to give a true verdict according to the evidence and second, ladies and gentlemen, long experience shows that once you get started on a case you concentrate on the evidence in court, not previous publicity.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS

TO JURORS, DAY ONE OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Brian Rolfe is the solicitor who represented Zdravko Micevic, defending him against the charge of the manslaughter death of David Hookes. He is a partner in the criminal law firm Galbally Rolfe and prior to Micevic’s trial I wanted to discuss with Rolfe the impact of the press on his client. Right from our initial telephone conversation, Rolfe seemed truly concerned for Micevic and disgusted by the media’s treatment of him. He had the tone of a man aggrieved and was indignant and horrified at the relentless media frenzy that had followed Hookes’s death. ‘What has happened to my client is nothing short of an outrage’, he said. ‘I’ve received death threats for representing Micevic. It’s crazy.’ Rolfe is a tall, bearish man with a slightly unruly crop of grey-

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black hair. Throughout our meeting he was helpful and generous with his time and information. After a brief discussion about the paintings hanging in the foyer, Rolfe led me to his large and comfortable office. I asked Rolfe what impact he thought the ‘media frenzy’ had had on the proceedings so far. ‘How was the committal?’ I asked. ‘What do you feel was the impact of the press there?’ ‘In my thirty-plus years of acting in this jurisdiction’, answered Rolfe, ‘personally it’s the worst illustration of media irresponsibility and bias that I have ever seen’. ‘I suppose it’s unusual to have a client with this degree of celebrity’, I said. ‘My client, Micevic, punched someone once outside a hotel. Had it not been for the fact that Hookes was a cricketer of some repute, this case would have been forgotten by the media. In fact the case probably wouldn’t have made it into the media at all. The thing that disturbed myself and the barristers that appeared in this case is that it’s hard to imagine a potential juror who’s not affected by everything the media has done.’ In a case such as this with such extreme adverse publicity the accused’s lawyers will deliberately seek a jury which they guess – wildly, blindly – is the least likely to be influenced by the media. Micevic’s lawyers had told me that they wanted a jury of Age readers,27 as they would be more likely to resist the media influence and less likely to be caught up in all the hype surrounding the tragedy. Whether or not jurors are influenced by the media is an area that has received some attention. Research indicates that the answer, surprisingly but happily, is no. Jurors are in fact able to put the publicity aside and focus on the evidence before them. In 2001 the New South Wales Law and Justice Commission conducted a detailed study in this area and found that jurors often believed that newspaper coverage of their trial was inaccurate.

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The jurors were equally successful in identifying relevant issues regardless of whether the publicity was positive or negative towards the accused.28 In a case that has had a great deal of media scrutiny such as the trial of Zdravko Micevic, the judge will caution the jury about the media. Justice Cummins, the judge presiding over the trial of Micevic, asked which jurors wanted to be excused and said: ‘Just because you’ve seen some previous publicity you cannot not serve on the jury. Previous publicity does not disqualify people from serving on a jury because the jurors are randomly selected and must give a true verdict according to the evidence and the evidence is what you hear in court from the witness box. You don’t decide it on previous publicity, you decide it on what you hear. However, if despite your best efforts can’t bring an objective mind to the case, you can be excused.’ Justice Cummins also said, while presiding over another highprofile case: ‘Long experience in the law confirms that juries are robust and responsible. Juries, time and time again, come to Court in cases of great notoriety and publicity and demonstrate … that they act according to their oath or affirmation to give a true verdict according to the evidence led before them in Court.’ Author Malcolm Knox wrote that ‘Jurors consume media with admirable skepticism’. He referred to remarks made by the Chief Justice of New South Wales, James Spigelman, who rejected the notion that jurors were ‘fragile’ or easily influenced by media reports. Spigelman said that the ‘suggestion that jurors would be influenced by newspaper reports was most unlikely to be true. Recent cases had decisively rejected the previous tendency to regard jurors as … fragile and prone to prejudice … [J]urors get information from many sources, we should give them more credit’.29 Rolfe continued, saying: ‘I have received threats from anonymous members of the public because I am acting for Micevic. There was an extraordinary amount of hate mail, threats on his

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life, very distressing racist threats and abuse. The word “wog” was used very frequently and Micevic was told that he would meet with the same fate as Hookes when he went to jail. He was actually threatened with murder.’ Rolfe pulled out one of the threatening letters he had received and handed it over to me. It was full of all the hallmarks of lunatic hatred: a mixture of upper and lower case, huge letters followed by tiny ones, rambling insults, sprawling accusations. Later that week I thought about that letter, containing such passionate hatred inspired by the death of someone that the hatemail writer had never met. Perhaps we can conclude that the general public is influenced by the media enough to be galvanised into sending hate mail, but within the confines of the jury room they are able to rise above the media influence and make decisions with an unprejudiced mind. Rolfe continued, ‘I’ve never known a case where the family home of the accused has been set alight’. ‘That was subsequent to the media revealing Micevic’s address, wasn’t it?’ I asked. ‘Yes. I contacted the journalist involved, who maintained there was some obligation to the public for him to reveal it. All I know is that the day after he published it his house was burnt. That was particularly appalling’, Rolfe said, frowning, ‘because the press was aware that the homicide squad was so concerned about the safety of my client that they took the unusual step of agreeing for him to be released on bail without having to report to a police station and without having to provide his address in open court’. ‘Was that because of the risk of possible harm that might befall him if he were exposed to the public?’ I asked. ‘Yes. But despite the caution and fears of the homicide squad the journalist involved revealed his address.’ Most newspapers had published Micevic’s address,30 although one journalist in particular, Jamie Berry from the Age, was the one

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that bore the brunt for doing so. Ironically, Berry had been treated unfairly mainly by those who complained that Micevic had been treated unfairly. I rang up Berry to talk about his reasons for revealing Micevic’s address. Berry had been a journalist with the Age for over five years. At the time he was one of the newspaper’s police and court reporters. As it turned out his decision-making process was fairly prosaic. ‘I was following the general court reporting protocol. We publish the address so that there is no potential for the public to be confused with other people with the same name. Although it’s not a common name, there are other Micevics. It’s a safeguard for us, so people don’t point to the wrong person in confusion. We’re taught that straight away. Anyway, all court stories are given to our legal department, and they checked it and said it was OK.’ To support his view that he was simply following procedure Berry sent me a chapter from The Journalist’s Guide to Media Law, which is a seminal text used by journalism students. Sure enough there was the requirement that: ‘A court report must contain the name, age, occupation and full address of the accused’.31 ‘Hadn’t the police made the press aware of the risk to Micevic by publishing his address?’ I asked. ‘Not on that first day. Then after that there was an official Court Suppression Order made prohibiting publication of his address, so of course no one did again.’ Berry, like so many others, had been caught up in the whirlwind that this case engendered. ‘Did you have any regrets about publishing his address after the burning of his home?’ ‘I felt for the guy, all that public scrutiny, especially now that he’s been found not guilty. He must have felt so threatened and he won’t ever have the same life again. It wasn’t because of me though. Also, aside from the newspapers, the media had been

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camped outside his house for days, which people would have been able to see.’ ‘How did you feel being named for publishing his address?’32 ‘I thought it was unfair being picked out. It wasn’t just me and I was just doing my job in terms of being accurate and fair.’ Berry also sent me an extraordinary collection of emails sent to him after Micevic’s address had been published. They contained criticism: [You have] absolutely no sense of responsibility & (are) living proof that journalists have even less ethics and scruples than our politicians. There was absolutely no journalistic merit in publishing details of Zdravko Micevic’s address in your twobit rag yesterday. All you managed to do single-handedly was to create the potential for further tragedy to be created out of the loss of David Hookes. Your actions added incitement to an already over-charged situation. Why don’t you publish your own address & see how you go mate.

employment offers: Good on you Jamie for revealing as much as you legally could about that prick and where he lived. I’d have done exactly the same in the hope a few bricks went through his window … Well done buddy. You’d get a job with me anytime!

and maternal good-feeling: Congratulations for revealing this mongrel’s address. I am a 62-year-old mother of a 34-year-old son. I can tell you if my son hit someone … his clothes would be out on the road in plastic garbage bags … If this piece of vermin’s family are suffering I say ‘so what?’ I do not care. Long may they suffer… Again congratulations, I commend you …

‘Were there any other issues with the media?’ I asked Rolfe. ‘The other appalling thing the press did of course was to repeatedly publish photos of Micevic’s house, focusing on the

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punching bag that was hanging in his backyard. The inference that they were trying to create, I suppose, was that my client is a person who punches things a lot. It’s not true. He did a lot of sport, and likes to keep fit the way all the security guards do. That’s all.’ ‘How does all this bode for the trial?’ Rolfe was surprisingly optimistic. ‘I felt that at some point during the committal the attitude of many people in the community changed. After the committal we received letters saying that people regretted rushing to form harsh views.’ ‘So does it follow that things will be calmer during the trial?’ ‘I think so. Maybe. I’ve no doubt that once we get down to the issues stripped of all the hyperbole it will be a much simpler case to run. What’s important to remember is that the press never mentioned that when Micevic was interviewed he maintained Hookes had attacked him first. That he had swung one punch in self-defence. Also, throughout the interview he expressed extreme distress at what had happened. Huge concern and regret.’ ‘What is Micevic like as a person?’ ‘He’s a very nice, quietly spoken young bloke. He was only twenty-one years old at the time. The press have absolutely cast him in the same light as those bouncers who go out of their way to hurt people and derive some satisfaction from it. Nothing could be further from the truth. What happened with Hookes is commonly referred to as a “bar-stool injury”. When someone is hit with one punch and because that person is affected to some degree by alcohol they offer no resistance to the punch. They fall and strike their head. These are not uncommon cases.’ ‘How have Micevic’s family been holding up?’ ‘They’ve been terribly distressed. It’s been an enormous strain on them. A great financial drain as well. They’ve been extremely supportive of their son though.’ Our conversation swung back to the forthcoming trial of Micevic.

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‘I do feel the media have become slightly saner’, said Rolfe. ‘Part of that may have been that it was revealed that Hookes had quite a high blood-alcohol content. There was no mention of that in the press prior to the committal.’ It was revealed during the court case that Hookes’s blood alcohol reading was 0.14 per cent, just under three times the legal limit for driving. ‘So what does Micevic say happened?’ I asked. ‘Self-defence. Hookes struck my client in his stomach with a clenched right fist. My client struck Hookes back once, with his left hand, bearing in mind that he’s right-handed.’ When the interview finished I thanked Rolfe and packed up my things. Rolfe walked me to the lift. The tape recorder was turned off and Rolfe became a little freer in his speech. He leaned towards me and whispered, ‘I think we’re going to get him off. The medical evidence is on our side.’

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THE MEDIA AND PROTECTING ONE’S OWN

‘Had you anticipated meeting up with Mr Hookes later on that evening?’ ‘Yes I had.’ ‘As of that period of time you’d known Mr Hookes for some two years?’ ‘That’s right.’ RAY ELSTON TRIAL OF

TO

CHRISTINE PADFIELD,

DAY FOUR OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Extramarital affairs have occurred throughout the ages. They used to be illegal but times have changed. We no longer have the letter ‘A’ branded on our foreheads or clothing. While they often cause pain, there is nothing unusual about affairs. The same can be said for a marriage ending. Since the enactment of the Family Law Act 1975 Australia has had a no-fault divorce system. The then Attorney-General stated that one of the aims of the Act was to assist couples whose marriage had irretrievably broken down to dissolve their marriages in a simple way. Obtaining a divorce is an administrative process, involving filing forms. The Australian Bureau of Statistics 1998 figures report that there are approximately one million divorced people in our population, that in 1998 there were 51 400 divorces and in that

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same year re-marriages constituted one third of all marriages. It is one of the happier facts about society today that if you are suffering in a miserable relationship it is relatively easy to get out. People marry, divorce, remarry and divorce yet again. A marriage ending can cause disappointment, bitterness and sadness. It can be difficult for children, although on the other hand it can also be a blessed relief to children who have endured years of squabbling. It can cause financial hardship for one or both of the separating couple. But scandal? No. Outrage? No. Anything to be ashamed of or embarrassed about? No. The absolute mundanity of relationships ending is why one of the responses to David Hookes’s death can surely be labelled one of the most bizarre moments in modern media. It was fairly well known that David Hookes and his wife Robyn Hookes had separated. It was also known that Hookes, like many people who have ended a relationship, had formed a new relationship and was also enjoying other dalliances. The woman Hookes was going out with was Christine Padfield. This, a grown man’s relationship choice, is of course highly trivial and inconsequential. What turns this fluff into a matter of staggering weight was the way it was handled by the media. David Hookes was a media man and with his death the media lost one of their own. He was as much of an insider as it was possible to be. This led the decision makers within the media to make a decision they have no doubt regretted. Motivated by a conservative, well-intentioned but misguided sense of loyalty they decided to pretend to the readers and listeners of Australia’s newspapers and radios that Hookes was still happily married. Journalists were instructed not to mention Hookes’s girlfriend. But, like many other ill-conceived cover-ups, all soon degenerated into a messy circus. Journalist Derryn Hinch, with his keen nose for scandal, was at the centre of the fiasco. Although I have never listened to his radio show, I’d long been curious about Hinch. I liked the

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way he was so open about his vulnerabilities, highly unusual for a man of his age and level of professional success. In his blokesy industry where many of his colleagues try to outswagger each other with macho bravado, Hinch shared his financial, relationship and, perhaps most endearingly, weight struggles with the world. I remember the release of his Soup and Wine Diet book. The insanity of it; did he really live on just soup and wine? Hinch was also open about his financial woes. In an era where people are coy about their earnings and boastful about their excesses, Hinch bared all. His destitution, the sale of his assets, his struggle, his many marriages and divorces. Hinch also had wildcard unpredictability. Some of his views seemed driven by a megalomaniac type of preaching from a pedestal: popularist, sensationalist, unpleasant. At other times he seemed to be the lone voice of reason in a sea of foolishness. The day of Hookes’s funeral, Hinch ended a tribute to Hookes with the following remark during his afternoon show on 3AW: This is delicate, but I have said many times before about a lot of people that all history owes the dead is the truth. And the truth is that Hookes and his wife separated last year. That has not been made public. There is another woman whom I have talked to off air who is grieving for a loved one right now …

For saying this he ‘became a pariah’33 at 3AW. Hinch received a phone call immediately after making his comments from Clark Forbes, 3AW’s Program Director. Forbes showered Hinch with insults, which Hinch described as ‘savage, searing and insulting. The “F” word got lots of mentions and the “C” word too. I was despicable. I was a low-life maggot’. Steve Price called Hinch a ‘wine-soaked drunk’ on his radio program. Radio presenter Rex Hunt wrote to Hinch saying, ‘The fact is that your comment has hurt so many of your 3AW family’.

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Hinch called his colleagues ‘my lying, hypocritical, sanctimonious, double-standard colleagues’ who ‘tried ineptly to play in the dicey world of cover-up’. I interviewed Hinch about the incident and found him characteristically uninhibited. ‘If I saw that picture of Robyn Hookes and the kids once more I’d vomit’, he declared. ‘It was appalling media manipulation. It was severe and sinister media manipulation. They built a myth and that’s not fair journalism. Aside from that there were two other women who had been involved with Hookes, not just Christine Padfield, who were also grieving.’ ‘Was the anger felt towards you by Clark Forbes and the others,’ I asked, ‘personal outrage, or was it concern about how your revelation would impact on the station?’ ‘I think that it was personal outrage. It wasn’t about the station, it was about their own feelings.’ Hinch has since written that ‘… so many people were aching and grieving. And in my opinion behaving emotionally and professionally irrationally … I told the station management: [I] get hit by a bus tonight and die. You find a scandal about me tomorrow. Go with it. Be honest. We are not a bullshit station.’34 ‘How did it all affect you?’ I asked. ‘I was almost fired from my job over this. They caused me so much stress I now work from home before I go on air. They’ve done me a favour in a way, I’ve lost more weight.’ ‘How did the radio compare with the newspapers in how they reported it?’ ‘Neither were great. The radio was shocking with its sanitising. I watched it go on for ages. They knew the truth but hid it. The newspapers were shocking as well. Someone must have made a decision to keep it going because it went on so long. It would have been a business decision the editor made. He probably thought it was also what his readers wanted to hear.’ ‘What was their motivation?’ ‘It was the blokey-blokey senior news execs on newspapers

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and in radio and television in Melbourne who did it for Hookesy. A month after Hookes had died the Herald Sun, one of Australia’s biggest, most important newspapers, in the town where he had coached the Victorian cricket team, still had not mentioned his true marital status. Different rules apparently applied for one of our own. The Herald Sun ran eight or nine pages of Hookes stories and everyday they published the “happy snaps” of Hookes and his wife and two stepchildren … It never conceded what the editor knew, that he had left his wife last year. That Hookes and his girlfriend had looked at property together. Journalistically I have been ethical, factual, responsible.’ During my meeting with Steve Price, I had asked Price his opinion about what Hinch had done. Price replied, ‘Hinch did it for one reason and one reason only: publicity for himself. It had absolutely nothing to do with a search for truth, and it worked, he achieved the publicity he wanted’. Of course I knew that this was what Price would say: he had been very vocal in his condemnation of Hinch. I asked Price if his extreme reaction to Hinch was another example of why grieving journalists should step aside. He replied:‘ Well, there were a great many people who were very critical of what Hinch did. I was simply reflecting that public opinion. Empathy is a great tool for anyone who does talkback radio, you soak up their mood. That’s what I was doing. All I do is give the community a voice, and hopefully express the majority of opinions. Sometimes I may be way off to one side but usually I’m reflecting the majority. Hinch was pathetic. There was no reason to do it on the day of his funeral. It’s so stupid and tactless’. ‘You wouldn’t care if he was so tactless about someone you didn’t know’, I said to Price. ‘Isn’t that a conflict? Aren’t you expecting higher standards because it was concerning your friend?’ ‘Isn’t life about relationships and respecting your colleagues and those around you?’, Price answered. ‘It’s just a natural human reaction. Some of us become close to the people we work with.

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That radio station is like any other small group of people. We all worked very hard for a long time to make that station successful, so when someone is harmed, naturally you’re defensive about it. I don’t think that’s a conflict. You can’t separate yourself from human emotions just because you’re on air.’ Producer Cos Cardone had expressed similar views. ‘We all went to David Hookes’s wake and word got out what Hinch had done. People were very, very angry. If he would have walked into the room at that moment God knows what people would have done to him. Everyone was there; senior journalists and media people, chief of staff. There was so much anger there towards Hinch, everyone was talking about what a disgusting thing he’d done.’ Shortly after my conversation with Derryn Hinch I met ‘Sue’ for a coffee. Sue is an intelligent and thoughtful journalist who writes for one of the major daily newspapers. She was one of the reporters covering Hookes’s death and the court case against Micevic and she was outraged by the conditions that had been imposed on her by management. ‘I was told not to mention that Christine Padfield was Hookes’s girlfriend. So were other journalists.’ ‘Who told you?’ ‘The boss.’ ‘Did he spell it out or hint at it?’ ‘It was made expressly clear. He tapped me on the shoulder with a wink and a nudge about my reporting the story. As I say, it was made perfectly clear to me, and if you look at the papers the facts are there that she was omitted. In the initial stages Padfield was never mentioned.’ ‘How did it make you feel?’ ‘It’s rare to get that sort of tap on the shoulder, and I felt it was disgraceful and disgusting. It is such an example of the mates of powerful people looking after each other. It sold the readers short and the first responsibility should be to the readers.’

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‘What would have happened if you had ignored the wink and nudge and written the truth? Would the story have been changed in any way during the editing process?’ ‘Yes. People at the top would make sure it was changed. And someone would probably have come and have a word with me.’ I asked Sue if she agreed with Derryn Hinch’s observation ‘that it was the worst case of media manipulation’ he’d ever seen. ‘Well,’ answered Sue slowly, stirring her coffee round and round as she spoke, ‘I can’t think of a worse one. It was so widespread. The coverage during the trial also spoke volumes. When there was bad news about Micevic it got big headlines, incredible prominence. When it was things that were negative to David Hookes’s case it barely received any coverage. For example, when the forensic pathologist described the blow as mild to moderate, or any discussions of the scuffle, or the amount of alcohol involved’. ‘In your view, what was the motivation behind it all?’ Sue ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. ‘The media mate syndrome in Australia. There has never been a clearer case than this. He was an insider. It certainly would have sold a lot of newspapers to expose Christine Padfield. There’s plenty of pitbull in the Australian media, plenty of sharks. If this would have been anyone else, an “outsider”, it would have been absolutely free for all. There would have been a front-page story saying “Hookes’s love’s pain”, “Hookes’s secret life”. It would have sold a lot of newspapers and it’s not often they won’t print something they know will sell papers. But he was their friend and an insider. All he had after his death was his reputation and his media mates did what they could to salvage it.’ ‘Hookes had close ties to the most influential [Melbourne] media – the Herald Sun and 3AW,’ said Sue. ‘They both run sport in Melbourne and he ran the most influential sports show in Melbourne on 3AW, so he had all his backers there. The bottom line is that the people who made the decision were his mates. They made decisions based not on the truth but on the interests of their mates.’

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‘How often does something like this happen?’ ‘Rarely, but when it does it’s disgusting. Everyone in the highest echelons knows each other. If you’re mates with powerful people, you’re a powerful person yourself and powerful people look after and protect each other.’ ‘Would it have reached a point when they thought it was getting out of hand?’ ‘It was playing with the truth and it was never properly rectified. Even when Padfield’s story came out on the Australian Story,35 they reported all the furore that came out around the episode, rather than the issue itself, which is a clever trick.’ ‘Is this an example of how conservative a society we are, seeing it as being helpful to someone’s reputation to pretend that they were happily married?’ ‘To me it was more like a mistake that got out of hand. They would have initially said “Let’s not make it look grubby, let’s leave Padfield out of it”. Being close to David Hookes meant that over the years Robyn Hookes probably became mates with all these people as well, so there would have been a real awareness of her feelings. Then it got out of control and they got caught in a situation where they would have thought “Shit, everyone knows we’ve been telling those lies and we’ve been creating a fairytale around this bloke and now it’s come out”. I think they would have been embarrassed. ‘They probably hoped it would blow over but it didn’t. That’s why there was so much resentment towards Hinch. The irony is that he should get a broadcasting award. I don’t have that much time for Hinch, but he had great courage, he would have known his colleagues’ response, he would have known he would quite possibly lose his job and he still went ahead, which is the complete opposite to what the rest of the media did. They sold their readers and listeners short because journalists have a duty to report the truth. If you make money reporting and you tell your readers that you are telling the truth, but you actually tell

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untruths to protect your mate, that’s bad. Surely your first responsibility should be to your readers and listeners. The case really demonstrated the pack mentality. The pack extended to the media too, there was a riot of misinformation and hatred. ‘The irony is it was all over such a trifling thing. If on day one they had briefly referred to Padfield, the readers wouldn’t have blinked at all. Everyone has a brother, a friend, a parent, or even themselves who is separated and has a new girlfriend or boyfriend. It was like something out of the 1960s when these things were hidden and the show goes on for the family.’ Our interview drew to a close and Sue looked relieved that it was time to go. During our meeting she had looked over her shoulder several times, obviously concerned that one of her colleagues would walk by and see us talking. There were serious implications for her bravery; whistle-blowers run risks. Sports commentator Warrick Hadfield had a pragmatic perspective of the cover-up saying, ‘There are a lot of divorces in cricket. It’s not as if they don’t happen. But I think cricket relies, and all sport relies, enormously on sponsorship and to have an image which is not good, which is not perceived well in the community, is very damaging’.36 The next week I met with a journalist who knew both David Hookes and Derryn Hinch. I asked him what his views on the incident were and he said, ‘I’m so angry with Hinch because he was so wrong. I know where Hinch is coming from, factual honesty, freedom of speech. Well, he can talk about truth and journalistic principles but the real truth is he did it for himself, his ratings and nothing else. It had nothing to do with hiding the truth, we all knew Hookesy wasn’t a saint but it was really inappropriate to mention it two hours after the funeral. There’s a level of decency that overrides the level of truth. In journalism 101 they talk about the truth but the reality is that truth doesn’t have much to do with today’s media. The ten-word grabs often taken out of context, are they the truth? Are sensationalist headlines true?

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Hinch said all we owe the dead is the truth, but truth is open to interpretation. If I were you I’d never attempt to find the truth because it’s impossible to find. The only truth to me is that Hookes was a fantastic person and now he’s gone.’ ‘So what do you do, abandon the notion of truth or strive to maintain it?’ I asked. ‘The media is owned by shareholders, it’s a business of money-making. Anyone who reads anything has to put the filtration system on it more than before. I question whatever I hear in the media.’ ‘I think that the majority of people generally believe what they read and hear in the media.’ ‘Well, if they do, they’re naive.’

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MATTHEW RICKETSON

‘Don’t go and do any of your own research. Don’t look up old newspapers, don’t look up the Internet, don’t do computer searches. You must not do that sort of research ladies and gentlemen (because) you decide this case on what you hear in court. Anything outside the court is irrelevant.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS


ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

I had been looking forward to hearing what journalist and lecturer Matthew Ricketson thought of all this. Unlike my astonishment at the strangeness of what I was hearing, Ricketson was unfazed. ‘I’m not surprised by any decision to hide certain facts. I supported what Derryn Hinch did to make that information public, there was some conscious mythologising going on. It was being presented to the Australian public that he was happily married to the extent that it was misleading. The media people are grieving. That’s when you should ask others to cover the story and to make those decisions. You should be a professional.’ I asked Ricketson about what many journalists I had spoken to had expressed. They had felt that the timing of Derryn Hinch’s

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revelation, rather than the revelation itself, was the problem. They sympathised to a degree with his opinion, but thought that to make his comments on the day of the memorial service was tasteless. After all Robyn Hookes was under a huge amount of stress and pressure. She had been struggling already with the dissolution of her relationship and then plummeted head first into a black and devastating grief. Ricketson replied, ‘Have these people ever looked at what they do? Their double standards are extraordinary. They defend their right to report in an aggressive way, so they can’t be sympathetic just to Robyn Hookes and not the rest of the world. For example, look up the reporting of the incident involving Neville Garden. He was a mentally unwell man and it was reported that he’d escaped from jail under shocking headings like “Loony escapes”, “Mad man on the loose”. Both he and Robyn Hookes were suffering and the media owed them both the same responsibility.’ I vaguely remembered Neville Garden’s name, and looked through back copies of newspapers featuring him later that week. I saw the point Ricketson was making very clearly. Neville Garden was a Victorian man suffering from a mental illness who escaped from the Thomas Embling psychiatric hospital while on day leave. The media had a field day. Continual mention was made of his psychiatric condition. The front page of the Herald Sun intoned ‘Warning: I can kill’. This was followed up by an article beginning ‘Deranged killer …’37 The Editorial asked: Which is the crazier? Is it the psychopathic killer who escaped while on day release … or is it the outrageously lax system that allowed him to visit Southbank on a crowded afternoon accompanied by only two nurses?

I asked Ricketson his views on what I had heard. He replied: ‘To the media people who are happy about lies being told, all I say is I don’t know how they can sleep at night’.

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CHRIS HARMS

‘Mr Hookes was very well known.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS,


ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

Chris Harms played Sheffield Shield cricket with David Hookes for South Australia from 1982 till 1985 when he retired after an injury. He is married to the opera singer Kirsty Harms. Harms and I met in a stylish city café, in the basement of a building down a little laneway. Dark and swish and filled with business people in suits it was light years away from the cricket field. However, our conversation brought us right into the inner sanctum. We ordered our coffees and he plunged right in with no chit-chat. I later reflected that there had been something unburdening about our conversation for Harms. He couldn’t wait to talk about Hookes. ‘David was a very smart guy’, he began, both hands on the table in front of him. ‘I had a love/hate relationship with him.’ ‘How?’ ‘I never really fitted the mould properly. I never really fitted into the cricket world. David once described me as a part-time cricketer and full-time socialiser. He kept trying to push me harder but it was always just a game to me. Free drinks, lots of fun, but not my life. I was married to an opera singer, I had a life

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beyond the game. He found that really hard to understand, because for him it was his absolute life. He was of the old school, [Ian] Chappell-style, drink hard and party hard. All of the best players were like that, they lived and breathed cricket.’ ‘What was he like outside the game?’ ‘I always judge someone on how they are with children, and David was fantastic with all the snotty-nosed little fellows running up for his autograph. I used to run cricket camps for kids and I employed David to be a guest “star”. He was so great with those kids. He was so funny, a great raconteur, fun to be with and he just loved the blokey mateship of cricket. He was also a bit of an enigma, I never knew where I stood with him from one day to the next. I could forgive him anything though, because he was so smart and sassy. He was very straight, never bullshitted. He told me I’d only played well twice, so I knew I’d played well twice. If you didn’t play well he was like acid, but when he was on his best behaviour you couldn’t help but love him. ‘He was also so very clever. I remember we once played against England – in November 1982. On our team were two or three very, very smart, highly qualified mathematics academics. They were playing a maths game with David on the scoreboard and David was quicker with numbers than all of them. He just kept winning and winning. He certainly had a brain, a big brain and a big ego to match. He was just a huge personality. ‘David was a real opportunist. If there was a good business deal, he’d be in. At one stage I was running my junior cricket camps with Sir Garfield Sobers. We were sponsored by Channel Nine and running them all around Australia. Like I said, I’d employed David to be a visiting guest cricketer for a few sessions. Next season he went and set up his own in Adelaide, copying my model.’ I looked hard at Harms, searching his face for bitterness about the pilfering of his idea. I saw none, so asked, ‘Did you resent him doing that?’

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‘No. David’s personality was such that you couldn’t really stay angry with him. I’ve met prime ministers, top athletes and CEOs, but David was by far the strongest personality I’ve ever met. Such a type-A male. So tough emotionally and physically. He ran a lot, he was a real runaholic, he’d run for miles each day. ‘He was involved in the media from back in the 1980s. Even when he was a top-level cricketer, he learnt the media game very early. He took his media job seriously and worked really hard at establishing himself there. He was so entertaining and forthright and loved playing devil’s advocate stirring people up. ‘We used to call him Mr Adelaide because he ran the town. He was a superstar and a real 1970s bloke, kind of like a rock star from that era. He’d always wanted to be a big star in a big town, that’s why he came to Melbourne. He achieved his goal. He knew how to conduct himself with powerful people, he knew how to rub shoulders. To make it to where he did you have to get on well with all the owners of the media outlets, the people at the top and he certainly did. ‘He was a fascinating character. A lot of people didn’t realise how complex he was. He came across as a real ocker, but he was just so smart and clever. The typical cricketer is boorish, rednecked and absolutely focused, single-minded. Most come from the streets, they’re not the university types. Cricket comes before everything else. It’s very seductive. You’re treated like a god, especially in countries like India or Sri Lanka. Even England. David always had goals and worked hard to achieve them. He told me I should set my goals higher. I respected him, his ability, his talent and his incredible perseverance, not just in cricket. He had real perseverance as a long-distance runner, and other things as well. ‘It’s all changed, cricket’s so different now. There are media coaches, physiotherapists, a whole lot of dedicated staff. We never got any of that. After a game we’d drink beer to numb any pain. In the morning we’d have four or five coffees to get us going, to get us able to face a fast bowler.

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‘The way David went was kind of inevitable. It had to be either drinking at the pub, or in a fast car, or climbing a mountain, or having weights fall on him. He didn’t do things in half measures. When he died it was horrible but not surprising, he loved pubs. At the end of a hard game he’d always find time for a drink.’ I asked Harms about what it was like, retiring from cricket. ‘Some cricketers have a very hard time retiring, moving away from all that fame. So many of them try to hang on to the game, become coaches, selectors, whatever. It’s a very weird feeling when you play cricket you meet CEOs, prime ministers, and all sorts of powerful people who just love the game. Australians hold their first-class cricketers in such high regard, it always staggered me. I mean really all we can do is hit a round piece of leather. John Howard’s a prime example. He has enormous respect for cricket players. He sent his boys to my cricket camps when he was leader of the Opposition. He looked up to us and all the cricket stars so much it amazed me. We were just boys from the ’burbs who could hit a ball.’

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THE MEDIA AND MYTHOLOGY

‘That young man has been demonised by some sections of the press. David Hookes has been sanctified. Neither of these images are real.’ TERRY FORREST,


ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

American author Jack Lule worked as a journalist in Philadelphia and after many years of reporting began to question what made a story worthy for inclusion in the news. This led him to develop the theory that the reporting of news such as the death of David Hookes and the trial of Zdravko Micevic is modern mythcreation: the events included in the news are ‘ancient myths repeating themselves in the news stories of today’.38 ‘I have come to believe … that … the daily news is the primary vehicle for myth in our time’, wrote Lule. ‘Both news and myth tell stories from real life … [T]hey use these stories to instruct and inform … They present tales of heroes and villains, of models to emulate and outcasts to denigrate.’39 Lule believes that Every society needs stories that confront the ultimate issues of the human condition. Modern societies like to pretend they are more ‘advanced’ than other societies. They believe myth

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is for ancient or primitive societies … They believe they have replaced myth with … objective reports of the real world. They fool themselves.

The mythic role of news helps us confront what Freud called the ‘battle of the giants’: life and death. Like myth, the news can be seen as wrestling with some of the deepest questions of human existence: What is the meaning of life? How should we live while knowing that death may come, literally, at any moment? News-myth was needed to make sense of the loss of Hookes, such a vibrant and talented man. As journalist Peter Roebuck wrote, ‘Hookes was full of life and that is the awful irony of it. Nothing seemed to hurt him or slow him down. And yet it took a mere punch to stop him, a blow that left him unconscious on a road’.40 Similarly his friend John Singleton said, ‘We’re all going to die but when it’s someone like David Hookes he’s never going to die, he’s an immortal’.41 Lule identified recurring myths that appear frequently, if not daily, in the news. The first is the victim myth. Myths reconcile people to the tragic and seeming randomness of human existence. Plans, careers, dreams and lives can be shattered in an instant by a lightening strike, a rare disease, a betrayal. Lives must be lived in the presence of death. Myth confronts death by turning it into heroic sacrifice … We all know these victims are not really heroes in the usual sense of the word unless they have died while doing some heroic deed. Yet the portrayal of victims as heroes seems appropriate and somehow comforting. In their attempts to give meaning to the death of an innocent person, to somehow explain lives lost … news stories turn death into sacrifice and victims into heroes. Myth has been doing that for centuries. Logic will not explain the sudden death of a victim. Rationality will not comfort those left behind … [M]yth, perhaps only myth is capable of reconciling humans to such fate. By recounting the story of the victim, by elevating the victim into a hero through the great grief of those left behind,

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the news plays a role that reaches back deeply into the relationship between myth and humankind. It offers some reconciliation and consolation with the ultimate fate of all life: death.42

The next is the myth of the scapegoat. Myth … defends the dominant social order … The scapegoat … embodies evil and guilt. Myths of the scapegoat ridicule and degrade, vilify and shun. People seem to need scapegoats to blame and abuse … As myth, news too degrades and demeans.

The hero myth seems particularly relevant. The hero is one of humankind’s most pervasive myths … [P]eople always seem to need stories of heroes. Heroes remind people that they can succeed, that they can achieve greatness … The news produces and reproduces the timeless pattern: Over and over again one hears a tale describing a hero’s miraculous but humble birth, his proof of great strength, his battle with evil and his fall through betrayal or a heroic sacrifice that ends with his death. In these myths are man’s eternal longing to find positive meaning in death, to accept death as a transition rite to a higher mode of being.43

Lule wrote that sport is often inextricably entwined with the hero myth, as sport offers drama and conflict, is performed on a public stage and evokes binary oppositions that are at the heart of myth, such as winning and losing, success and failure. This has also been observed in the context of another Australian sporting ‘hero’, cricketer Don Bradman. Referring to Bradman, author Brett Hutchins wrote that Sport, with its supposed level playing field and strong nationalist qualities is highly conducive to the creation of heroes … In line with Australian national mythologies, a sporting hero is most likely a white male who is independent, courageous, hardy, bold, good-humoured and who possesses a strong sense of mateship … 44

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After his death Hookes was described in terms that made him both the hero and the victim. He became the victim because he was assaulted by Micevic. The fact that Hookes may have in some way been a participant in the fight, rather than utterly blameless, does not sit well with the victim myth and was largely left out of the initial media coverage. Lule wrote that there is an archetypal introduction for heroes that is something like: ‘He struggled all his life to overcome his humble beginnings’. Hookes was described this way in almost everything I read. For instance his childhood coach and friend Denis Brien wrote, ‘He flew with the high flyers but he never forgot his working class background. You can take the boy out of the western suburbs, but you can’t take the western suburbs out of the boy’. Continual mention was made of the fact that as a child Hookes had a minor orthopedic problem with his feet which was treated by walking shoeless. A great many of the tributes and eulogies for Hookes referred to the ‘barefooted urchin’, ‘the barefooted young cricketer’ and the ‘barefoot lovable larrikin from working-class Torrensville’.45 There were also a few crucial moments in Hookes’s past that lent themselves beautifully to celebrating Hookes’s hero status, the most notable being the magical five fours he hit in the one over off the England team’s captain, Tony Greig, during the 1977 Centenary Test. Hookes’s hero status was also enhanced though an organ donation foundation which was established in his honour. After Hookes’s death a press conference was called, fronted by billionaire entrepreneur Kerry Packer and Robyn Hookes, announcing the establishment of the David Hookes Organ Donation Foundation. There is a desperate shortage of organs for donation in Australia. David Hookes donated his organs and the cause was one he’d felt passionate about. There is someone whose life has been saved with a new heart, someone free from the shackles of dialysis, someone with functioning corneas because of David Hookes.

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The David Hookes Organ Donation Foundation has a website which states: The awful tragedy which overtook David Hookes led to an idea that will perpetuate his memory in the most positive way. The end of this world for one need not be the end of the world for others. The David Hookes Foundation was established to give people something far more important than money. We want to inspire more people to register as organ donors. You can register through this website.

If you click a button on the website a video starts playing. It is the Australian captain Ricky Ponting talking, while sombre classical music plays in the background. He says: ‘David Hookes was a champion not just because he was a great cricketer but because he was also an organ donor. Up to ten lives have already been saved thanks to Hookesy. But there are thousands more in desperate need. So if you wish to honour the memory of a great Australian visit this website and become a donor.’ As Ponting talks images of David Hookes flash past: playing cricket, behind a microphone, coaching a group of children. I personally regard organ transplantation as a miracle, and still can’t quite believe that crucial body parts can be shifted between humans as though they were blocks of Lego. The fact that a heart can be taken from one body, placed in another and begin ticking. A cornea from one eye can make a different eye see. But the David Hookes Organ Donation Foundation was not without its controversy. Hookes’s brother Terry Cranage said, ‘The one thing that made me very sad was what I would call the commercialisation of David’s organs being donated. It was assumed by all concerned that it was a very private affair. I felt something had been taken from me … we had a private little thing that we had done that we felt was good, and then all of a sudden to see it blown across the press didn’t seem right … As it turns out it was totally controlled by … the Kerry Packer organisation and the heavyweights that

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have presumably put some money in to set it up. I was told flatly that I was not to attend the launch. There were only two of us in the family so I was very hurt and I’m not ashamed to say that.’46 Sports journalist Warrick Hadfield said ‘Kerry Packer obviously decided that Robyn was going to be the person at the front and away things went. I don’t think too many people in the media are ready to take on Kerry Packer over something like that’.47 Hookes’s girlfriend Christine Padfield has stated that ‘The fact that Robyn has started … the David Hookes Foundation – I think obviously it’s a great cause. At the same time she’s maintained a very public notion that she and David were still happily married when in fact they were separated. It made me feel very isolated from the whole situation to read reports that I knew weren’t true.’48 Perhaps it is helpful when trying to make sense of all this to apply Lule’s model and say that the Organ Donation Foundation, worthy and valuable though it clearly is, was also a necessary part of the machinery needed for the hero component of the myth creation. The mythical scapegoat is portrayed in the news as embodying all the ills of society, and his punishment is dramatised. Micevic’s punishment, inflicted before the court case which ultimately found him not guilty, was severe. After his portrayal in the media there were threats on his life, racist abuse, the burning of his home and the vandalism of his car. After thinking about the application of Lule’s theories to the media response after David Hookes’s death I emailed Lule, asking: ‘Could it be said that the jury rejected the incredible mythologising of Hookes? Despite the portrayal of the security guard in the media, he was acquitted. The jurors obviously were able to focus on the legal arguments and evidence despite the “pressure” from the press. The accused’s lawyers also felt that there may have been a type of sympathy response from the jurors in response to him being treated so shabbily.’

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Lule responded: I think your point that the jury might have rejected the mythologising could be right on the mark. Myths are stories and they can be told poorly or well. If the media attempted to turn Hookes into a hero or victim and the story did not ring true to the jurors, such mythologising may even have hurt the prosecution. You indeed may have viewed a reaction to a myth poorly told and poorly applied. We often see celebrities trying to spin mythic tales about themselves that the public rightly and freely dismisses.

Author Malcolm Knox wrote about his time as a juror and said ‘I’ve always been a knee-jerk supporter of the underdog – any underdog’.49 Perhaps Micevic’s underdog status was a relevant factor for the jury. Knox also referred to a jury that acquitted a woman charged with killing a baby. One of the jurors on that case said, ‘We didn’t know anything about that evidence, we just thought the (accused) had suffered enough already.’50 One can only speculate if Micevic’s jurors felt the same way. I also asked Jack Lule: ‘Where does the grief of Hookes’s colleagues (the newspaper editors, the radio presenters) fit into the equation?’ He answered: ‘I’m quite certain that the grief of Hookes’s colleagues would have played a role. It’s difficult for most of us to face death without myth. Faced with the death of their colleague, editors quite possibly could have gotten through their grief or anger by making a hero of Hookes as well as a victim. Indeed, Freud suggested that death might be the single most important reason for the creation of myth. Death is very hard to accept and myth helps us face death.’

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WOMEN

‘On January 18, 2004 do you recall receiving a telephone call from Mr David Hookes around quarter to eight in the evening?’ ‘That’s correct.’ RAY ELSTON TRIAL OF

TO

CHRISTINE PADFIELD,

DAY FOUR OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Robyn Hookes and Christine Padfield were very present after Hookes’s death in different ways. Both had stepped forward to become self-elected representatives for parts of Hookes’s life that had emerged after his death. Perhaps for both of them their choice to have a very public response to their loss was part of the grieving process. The talking, the buzz, the hubbub of activity were all a way of dealing with the gut-wrenching emotions. Hookes was a person who had been in the public domain for so long that they may have somehow felt a public response was fitting. Robyn Hookes was the very publicly grieving wife, the one assisting in organising the memorial service, receiving thousands of condolence cards, being consulted by those organising tributes to Hookes and standing next to Kerry Packer as the face of the David Hookes Foundation. Robyn Hookes had a tremendous

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amount invested in being Mrs David Hookes. She clung on for dear life, even once her husband had left her, and the media encouraged her in this. Watching Robyn Hookes be celebrated in all the newspapers was ironic as since Hookes’s death she had regained the previously forfeited wife-status she had so desired. The media propped her up in the role, showing many photographs of her grieving, blowing a kiss to cricketer Darren Berry, talking to the press about her pain. Before his death she had been painfully struggling in the shadows, trying to cope with the fact that her husband had left her. She rose to the occasion beautifully and everyone commented on how dignified she was in her mourning. Christine Padfield, on the other hand, became the face of Hookes’s private life, the girlfriend who, after an entire relationship of discreetly waiting in the wings, went public. And how very, very public. An entire episode of the ABC’s Australian Story was devoted to her relationship with Hookes and the fact that her relationship had been ignored by the media. Perhaps Padfield’s pain was such that she had to burst out of the shadows screaming, ‘Don’t forget me. I loved this man too’. There were many close-ups of Christine’s wide-eyed expressive face as she spoke about Hookes. ‘David had said to me by this time next year I’d be barefoot and pregnant,’ she said looking proud. The camera focused on Christine as she read out one of the many letters that David Hookes had sent her: I think about you all the time and I want to be near you. All this could have been so easy if I met you as a single person. That’s where the problem lies. I was not single and you knew that. I guess we both entered this relationship without expecting it to develop to the stage it has.

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RESPECT AND DECENCY

‘At about eight in the morning you introduced yourself to Mr Micevic?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And explained the present situation to him?’ ‘Yes I did.’ RAY ELSTON BEZZINA,

TO

DETECTIVE SENIOR SERGEANT CHARLIE

DAY EIGHT OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Micevic’s defence team had told me on several occasions about the large amount of hate mail they received, much of which was racist. However they were also at pains to stress that ‘All parties were very decent. The Hookes family was courteous and respectful, very decent people, and so were the Micevics. There was an unusual degree of respect between parties.’ After the trial Micevic gently put his hand on Terry Cranage’s (Hookes’s brother) shoulder. Micevic’s father shook Cranage’s hand. I imagined the two sad men facing each other, both bonded in their weary suffering: one having lost his only brother, the other sharing his son’s pain. Both were intimately connected to those at the core of the tragedy: the deceased and the man who caused his death. These were decent people involved in a devastating tragedy.

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Detective Senior Sergeant Charlie Bezzina has a Maltese background, and is olive-skinned with a solid build, brown eyes and short dark hair. He looks slightly weathered, and comes across as a hard-working family man with the attitude of a community activist. It was Bezzina who had investigated the death of David Hookes and subsequently charged Micevic. Bezzina had been in the police force for thirty-two years, and spoke glowingly of the enjoyment he got from his work. He had forgone promotions and pay rises to remain in his current position, investigating homicides. ‘I’ve found my niche in terms of what I want to do, specialising in my work’, he said. ‘What is it that appeals to you?’ I asked. ‘It’s partly the challenge but mainly it’s the interaction with the people, the public. You know that so many people depend on you. The victim’s family and equally the offender’s family, because they’re victims too in their own right. I always feel sympathy for them.’ Bezzina was a man who knew and enjoyed using his strength: a desire to allow people to lean on him and embrace his solid, rock-like dependability. I asked him how he felt about the verdict, after having conducted the investigation. ‘I was bitterly disappointed when the verdict came out. I thought we had a strong case against Micevic and I thought our strength was our independent witnesses. It astounded me that the jurors disregarded the independent witnesses. But you can never read juries. You can go to court with a strong case and get an acquittal or you can go to court with a weak case and get a conviction. You can never know what goes on with the jurors. I was disappointed in that regard because I was more than confident that we had a very good case to negate the self-defence of the accused. However, it’s the system we work under and it’s the jury’s call, not my call. I said to Robyn and her family: understand this. The most important person in court is the accused. It’s his rights that need to be protected.’

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There was absolutely no sourness or resentment in Bezzina’s voice, it was just very matter of fact. ‘How did all the publicity affect the investigation?’ ‘We’re used to the media hype. Homicide attracts the media but from our perspective the investigation was given the same standard of investigation as with any other case. The media made the case what it is. Same with the Wales-King murders.51 That was a domestic homicide and unfortunately there’s quite a number of them. The media played it out and everyone was rushing to the papers the next morning to see the next episode, like it was a big soap opera. ‘Two weeks after the David Hookes case I had a “one punch” by a bouncer outside a pub. The victim died, the bouncer claimed self-defence. The case went to trial and there was not one media person there, obviously because the victim wasn’t famous.’ Bezzina also made me understand the emotional role in policing: the awareness of people’s sensitivities and vulnerabilities as well as the hunting for clues, a commitment to the human side of the investigation. ‘I spoke to Micevic’s father shortly after the incident’, said Bezzina. ‘He was very, very shaken and upset and wanted to go to the hospital to apologise to the family. I told him not to, it was too early. I explained that I knew he meant well, but because of the emotions it wouldn’t be appropriate because Hookes’s family would not be ready to see him yet. ‘I had a bit to do with Micevic’s father, because I spoke to him on the day. Each day in court we also had discussions. We had a relationship, he was very, very concerned. At the committal he wanted to approach Terry Cranage and apologise, but Terry wasn’t in any position to speak to him at that moment. Then they finally spoke at the trial. Mr Micevic was of the view that if his son had done anything wrong the law should come down to its full effect. He was a fair man and I was certainly very impressed with his outlook.’

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I said, ‘Everyone seems to have been so reasonable’. ‘Yes. There was no hatred. As Terry Cranage said, “there are no winners here, only losers”. Had we secured a conviction there would still be no winners. Everyone has the right to defend himself and in the system we have the jury decides and they decided we didn’t prove our case beyond reasonable doubt. The whole thing was devastating. The cricketers certainly did nothing wrong. They’re entitled to have a beer and celebrate.’ Bezzina mentioned that he had been meaning to catch up with Terry Cranage, saying ‘I haven’t spoken to him since the trial’. ‘That’s good of you to stay in touch, even though the investigation is over.’ ‘It’s the same with Robyn and the kids. I touch base with them to say hello. If you think about it, I’ve spent a lot of time with Robyn Hookes and Terry Cranage and there is a friendship there. Same with the cricketers. You don’t just write them off. I’m always happy if they have a problem down the track and they ring me up for advice. That’s the relationship you build up with people over a case when you deal with them on a daily basis. We try to support the families of victims, and organise counselling for them.’ ‘Does that happen with all cases?’ ‘Yes because an unnatural death is such a significant thing in their lives. I don’t get blasé about it. They’ve got wants, needs and sometimes we get cards from people. We once did a prostitute murder and we got a lot of negativity from the public, saying “What are you so worried about, she was just a prostitute”. But – and this is what keeps me motivated and going – the Prostitute’s Collective in St Kilda sent us a big thank-you card signed by all the street girls. I felt so appreciated, it was fantastic. They knew that it made no difference whatsoever to us that she was a prostitute. They’re obviously of the view that people look down on them, so when I got the card, I thought “fantastic”. Also, we caught the fellow convicted of the prostitute killing. They were all so appreciative, their whole outlook towards the police has changed so much.

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‘I’m passionate about policing. The people rely on me so much. I update them regularly all the time, and they cling and cling and rightly so because I’m all they’ve got for both the accused and the deceased’s family. Sometimes if I have a lot of cases on, like last year I had fourteen, I feel embarrassed if I don’t remember who’s who. I always apologise if that happens. But what gives me a great feeling of reward is when I can get answers for the family. When I have answers or an arrest people are so appreciative. ‘We charge people with offences so serious there is the possibility of taking away their liberty. The most important things to a person are their life and their liberty. We’re involved in investigating the loss of one, and taking away the other. Our responsibility is so significant which is why we do so much investigation. Also, I feel so much for the families.’ A week after my meeting with Bezzina I rang him up. ‘Where does your approach to policing come from?’ I asked. ‘I put it down to dealing with victims’, answered Bezzina. ‘I joined the force at seventeen, my values come from my life experience. I love being there for people. If I can’t be supportive and helpful and sympathetic who can?’

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ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

‘At the time you threw a punch, how did you feel?’ ‘I was frightened.’ TERRY FORREST TRIAL OF

TO

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC,

DAY NINE OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

I had been thinking on and off about interviewing Micevic. I had heard that he was refusing to speak to anyone, so I decided to approach him, expecting nothing, to see what happened. I wrote to him through his lawyers, and received no reply. I tried to reach him through the police and other contacts I had made along the way, but the same message kept coming back to me: he doesn’t want to talk, he wants to move on. Someone had given me the phone number of his aunt and uncle, so I rang them up, asking if they could help me contact their nephew. I spoke to them a few times. They were gracious people and were both distressed about what had happened. I was appreciative of the kind way they responded to me: yet another stranger invading their privacy, wanting something from them, something painful and difficult, just for the gains of my own research. They were polite and never put it that way. ‘He’s a good boy, such a good boy’, his aunt began, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘It was so terrible, a terrible accident.’ She

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handed the phone to her husband. ‘You have no idea what we’ve been through,’ he said, ‘what Zdravko’s been through. It will take him years, maybe ten years, to feel normal again. Even me and my family. I’ve got four children, and I’ve had people ring me up from all over Australia threatening to kill me, to kill my children, to attack us. He needs to try and get a life back, I don’t think he’ll speak to you. I’m sorry, but he just can’t. You could offer him all the money in the world and he still wouldn’t talk. He needs to get away from it all. He just can’t talk to strangers about what happened. After all he’s been through it’s too much for him, too much.’ ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Thanks anyway. Goodbye.’ I understood and gave up. But fate takes strange twists and turns. While on holiday in Queensland I met two sisters, holidaying with their parents. Jelena was eighteen years old and Danush twenty-three. Jelena had long black hair and a relaxed, jovial air. Danush had short blonde hair and buzzed with intense energy. They told me about themselves, their studies, their part-time jobs, their boyfriends. When I told them what I was writing they looked at me incredulously. ‘Zdravko?’ said Danush, ‘We’re Serbian, we’ve grown up with him’. Their family and the Micevics had escaped the war-torn Balkans in the same year and both families had ended up living in the same neighbourhood in Melbourne. Although Micevic’s family were Bosnian Serbs and Jelena and Danush’s family were Croatian Serbs, they shared their language, their Orthodox religion and the painful bond of being uprooted and placed in a different culture where the foreign language and way of life were bewildering and strange. Their families were both part of the small group of Serbs in Melbourne, all from the former Republic of Yugoslavia. Danush and Jelena explained to me that Micevic is a much-loved son in a small and tight-knit community. I saw Jelena and Danush almost every day of our holiday, and when it was time to return to Melbourne we exchanged phone

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numbers and made plans to go out for a coffee. They rang me a couple of weeks later and invited me for lunch at their family home. ‘Come on Saturday afternoon,’ said Jelena, ‘we’ve got heaps of stuff to show you for your book.’ It took me over an hour to drive to the western suburbs, taking long freeways leading off other long freeways. As I drove closer, the area became more and more multicultural. In the main shopping strip Asian families browsed alongside African, and the shop signs were written in several languages. It was a swelteringly hot day and people fanned themselves as they walked. Two small boys were squirting each other with water pistols while their mother jigged a crying baby in her arms. A group of men wearing turbans were leaning against a shop wall, laughing in animated conversation. Jelena, Danush and their mother Olga were sitting and waiting for me in the shade of their tiled front veranda. They were all sipping iced water on a swinging chair, surrounded by pot plants in ceramic tubs. They led me inside and I was touched to see that they had spread the table with an incredible assortment of food in honour of my arrival. We sat down and Olga piled my plate high with delicacies as we chatted. Both Jelena and Danush went to the same primary and high schools as Micevic, and Danush had been in the same grade as him throughout her schooling. ‘What is he like?’ I asked. ‘Nice but very shy and quiet,’ said Jelena, ‘a kind of background character. He played soccer at school and did his boxing. He was friends with a group of loud boys. He was the quiet one in the group – he’d laugh at their jokes but not make his own. I suppose he was a bit mysterious, being so quiet. He was respected though, respected and well liked.’ ‘What was it like at your primary and high school?’ ‘About one-third of the students are from Yugoslavia,’ answered Danush, ‘so we always felt very comfortable and at home. There were heaps of kids from backgrounds like ours, we

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spoke Serbian in the playground and we all understood what each other had been through. In Grade Five, me, Zdravko, a whole bunch of us, went to special English classes. The class was filled only with us kids from the former Yugoslav Republic: Bosnians and Croats’. When we finished eating Danush brought out photographs from her school-days, and picked through them, passing me the ones with Micevic in them. First was one of her Year Eleven school formal. There was Micevic, very pimply, wearing a tuxedo, grinning with an arm draped over a friend’s shoulder, Danush squashed on the other side of him, all three giving the thumbs-up sign. Next a photograph of Danush and Micevic in Grade Six. Danush was wearing a yellow dress, Micevic jeans and a checked shirt. His long fringe reached the top of his eyelids. He looked impish, happy, just like all the other boys in the row next to him. Next came a large photograph of the whole grade, rows of smiling faces, with Micevic and Danush somewhere in the middle. I looked at the names under the photographs. Docic, Milich, Yelije, Zarjon, Stewart. ‘Stewart, well, there was one Anglo in your midst’, I said. ‘He was the teacher’, both Danush and Jelena said at the same time, and we all laughed. Danush talked quickly as she flicked through the photographs. ‘Zdravko was vice-captain in Year Ten,’ she said, ‘that position was voted for by the students.’ ‘What did people in your community think of what happened to Micevic?’ I asked ‘I mean the fight, the trial, the media?’ ‘Well’, drawled Jelena in her slow voice ‘none of us had heard of David Hookes before, because none of us follow cricket. But we all thought the media gave Zdravko such a hard time because of his race – you know, because he was one of us instead of one of them. Why else would they make out he was guilty even before the court case had started?’ Their mother Olga, who had been silent until now, nodded emphatically. ‘Yes’, she said. ‘Yes.’

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‘How was Micevic treated in the community while the court case was going on?’ I asked. ‘Everyone was sympathetic and supportive’, said Danush. ‘My parents would ring his parents and ask how they were coping and to let them know we were there for them. Also Micevic’s uncle, his dad’s younger brother, went door knocking in the neighbourhood asking for money for Zdravko’s legal fees.52 It was the week after my twenty-first birthday. I’d had a big party and quite a few people gave me money as a birthday present. When he came asking I went straight to my room, got $100 and donated it for his legal fees.’ ‘That was generous of you,’ I said, ‘to give away some of your birthday money.’ ‘I don’t see it that way. He was one of us and he needed help.’ ‘Did he knock on every door in the suburb?’ ‘No, he would have just visited the Serbian households.’ I wondered if Micevic’s legal team knew that their fees were partly paid for by the uncle of the accused, going cap in hand to beg on behalf of his nephew, doing whatever it took to increase the chances of saving his liberty. ‘His grandparents would have also collected money for his legal fees at the Serbian church pensioners group’, added Jelena. ‘He’s got a very big family here, that would have helped him cope. He’s got aunts, uncles, about ten first cousins. They all adore him.’ I told Jelena that when I had spoken to Micevic’s uncle he had said that Micevic was going overseas. ‘I can understand that. The second he says his name here, he’s known. It’ll be so hard for him to get a job, meet a girl. He’s become such a public figure. Even if he changes his name, people will recognise him.’ She was right. Months after the trial Micevic spoke of people recognising him in the street all the time. His face had become filed in the public’s memory. That morning I had gone

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through all my newspaper clippings from during the trial and watched his face change. The first few days it was tense, tight and closed. As the trial progressed there was a kind of loosening, the anxiety was still there, etched in the lines on his forehead, but there was more eye contact; he was able to meet the gaze of the camera and, instead of walking with his head bowed, his back was straight. When the not-guilty verdict was announced a huge smile, and this is the only way I can describe it, exploded on his face, revealing a part of him the public had never seen before. ‘I feel like a million bucks,’ he said, ‘a million bucks’. We packed away the photographs and Jelena asked me, ‘Would you like to go for a drive? There’s a lot we can show you around here that might be useful’. Jelena, Danush and I squeezed into Danush’s small car. As we drove, Danush and Jelena chatted and pointed things out to me. We paused at the Serbian church at the end of their street. The Serbian flag was waving at the front. They explained that much of the Serbian community life revolved around the church. There were youth meetings in the church hall, pensioners meetings, mothers’ groups and social gatherings. Micevic’s family, like many other Serbian families, was religious. Records of the police interview with Micevic on the night of David Hookes’s death include discussion of the small silver cross Micevic wore on a chain around his neck. As we were driving, Jelena waved to Micevic’s grandfather who was driving past. We stopped in front of the Micevic’s former home, the one that had been burnt. The Micevic family had had to flee from this house when the threats to their safety became too much to cope with. It was opposite the primary school, right near the church. The small white weather-board house was empty with a large ‘For Sale’ sign tacked up. There was a square of lawn in the front and a tiny veranda. The side of the house was charred, with black flame scars under the roof line, creeping around the

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aluminium-framed window and down the side wall. The white paint on the weather-boards highlighted the burn. Above the front door there was smoke damage, which spread under the eaves. The cream brick house next door was also for sale, as if being driven out was contagious, slowly spreading down the street. We drove past the Micevic’s new house, in an area known affectionately to the locals as mala Bosnia which means ‘little Bosnia’ and referred to the fact that only Bosnian families live in the block. There were rows of brand-new houses, the oldest being just four years old. The trees were just tiny saplings and everything looked squeaky clean. The newness evoked something of the artificiality of the Truman Show, but there was also a sense of being house proud and a sense of community. The Micevic’s house had a big wire fence around it with razor-wire along the top. ‘That had to go up during all the publicity’, explained Jelena. We continued driving and I looked at the graffiti sprayed on the sides of the supermarket, on the community hall and sports centre. Again and again on walls, under the railway bridge and on the side of the shops, a graffitied icon was repeated. It was a cross made of two lines of equal length. Each of the four spaces around the cross contained the letter ‘c’, with the two on the right side facing one way and the two on the left side facing backwards. ‘What does that mean?’ I asked my young tour guides. ‘It’s the Serbian sign’, said Jelena. ‘It means “only peace can save the Serbs”.’ We drove to the local strip of shops, where all the signs were in the Cyrillic script as well as English and parked the car. ‘Let’s have a coffee’, said Jelena. Jelena and Danush led me past the Serbian Social Services office to a small café in an arcade off the main strip. There were Laminex tables, chairs upholstered in vinyl and wood-panelled walls. Seven men were crowded around a table under the window. They were leaning in, heads towards the centre, talking loudly and animatedly. ‘Are they speaking Serbian?’ I asked Jelena. She nodded and waved to them.

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Jelena and Danush dropped me back at my car. I said goodbye and asked Olga if she had any ideas about how I would be able to interview Micevic. ‘I’ll approach his mother for you, he would need her permission before he could speak’, she replied. A week later Olga rang me. She had telephoned the Micevic household and asked his mother. She had not given her permission, so Micevic would not be allowed to speak and she was angry with Olga for asking. I thanked her for her efforts, and contemplated how strange it was that someone deemed old enough to be in charge of drunken patrons in a pub still had to seek his mother’s permission to talk to a stranger. There was perhaps some sort of poetic balance in not speaking to him. Every fight has two sides and I would never be able to hear from David Hookes what his version of events was. To speak to Micevic would be to hear only one side, which would be unfair, unbalanced. Perhaps cobbling their perspectives together through secondary sources was, although not my preferred choice, the best option. I did not have access to either of the men in white, the one living with the terrible knowledge of what had happened or the one living in the collective memory of the huge number of people who loved him.

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CRICKET

‘On Sunday, 18 January 2004, we’ve heard that the Bushrangers played a match at the Melbourne Cricket Ground and that was a win for Victoria.’ RAY ELSTON

TO

GREG SHIPPERD,

DAY FOUR THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Cricket, brought to Australia by English convicts and free settlers, had once been a genteel Englishman’s sport, a colonial link between Australia and the Mother Country. It was the first team sport ever played in Australia and is considered by many ‘the closest to being the national game’.53 There was something else I hadn’t realised about cricket; it is about power both on and off the field. Extraordinary links are forged and opportunities to network are provided, which is because of the reach of the circle of cricket devotees. Brian Stoddart, Dean of Communications at the University of Canberra, wrote about the relationship between big business and sport. He listed Alan Bond and the America’s Cup, John Elliott and the Carlton Football Club, Geoffrey Edelsten and the Sydney Swans Football Club and, of course, billionaire entrepreneur and media mogul Kerry Packer and cricket.54 Stoddart wrote that ‘An analysis of any edition of Who’s Who in Australia paying

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attention to sporting and private-club membership soon locates the source of male power networks. Sports clubs are too frequently overlooked as the homes of real social power in Australia’. Prime Minister John Howard is a cricket devotee, as is former prime minister Bob Hawke, who said ‘there is no form of recreation that I enjoy more than watching and playing cricket’.55 It is not just an Australian obsession: cricketers are honoured around the former British empire and many cricketers have been knighted including Sir Richard Hadlee, Sir Donald Bradman, Sir Garfield Sobers, Sir Jack Hobbs and Sir Vivian Richards. Australia–New Zealand relations reached one of their all-time lows in 1981 when Australian captain Greg Chappell instructed his bowler to bowl the final ball underarm in a one-day finals match, denying New Zealand any chance of tying the game (the best-of-five finals series stood at one-all). New Zealand Prime Minister Muldoon was sufficiently angered to call Chappell’s action ‘an act of cowardice’ and ‘the most disgusting episode in a game that was once played by gentlemen’. Malcolm Fraser, the Australian prime minister at the time, also deemed it of sufficient national importance to be worthy of comment and labelled the incident as being ‘contrary to the traditions of the game’. Kerry Packer, Australia’s richest man, died in late 2005. During his memorial service, in the many tributes, letters of condolence and eulogising articles, cricket was referred to time and time again. Much of the commentary after Packer’s death was provided by cricketers: bowler Shane Warne, former players Richie Benaud, Ian Chappell and Tony Greig and the current Australian captain Ricky Ponting all had thoughts, opinions and experience dealing with this powerful man. The role of Packer in the power flowing from cricket cannot be underestimated and all because of the ‘Cricket War’,56 a remarkable period in Australia’s social history. During the 1960s and the early 1970s the future of Australian cricket seemed uncertain. Its explosive revival was television related and David Hookes was at the eye of the storm. In the early

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1970s the popularity of television faltered and at the same time the cost of producing local television programs was rising. Packer, who owned television stations in Sydney and Melbourne, turned to sport to rectify his dwindling bottom line. In 1976 he approached the Australian Cricket Board and requested exclusive rights to televise Test cricket matches on Channel Nine. The Cricket Board refused. Packer, using the brash, innovative, bigpicture style that came to define him, devised an ingenious solution. He secretly contracted fifty of the world’s top cricketers, including members of the Australian Test team, and created his own World Series Cricket. This was the adult billionaire’s version of the uncoordinated child bringing a new football to school to ensure he got a kick. Kerry Packer transformed cricket into a business, exploding it into the twentieth century. David Hookes was a crucial part of this amazing episode. Hookes, like all the World Series cricketers, brought to Packer’s vision his great sporting talent. Unlike the other players, Hookes also brought his dashing marketability. His handsome face was eagerly picked up by Packer’s marketing machine. Journalist Gideon Haigh wrote that ‘his boyish good looks were fit for front pages and centrefolds’ and that he ‘looked like he’d been sent down by central casting to play the prince to Snow White’.57 The marketing people obviously thought so as well. The theme song for the World Series Cricket was the very catchy ‘C’mon Aussie c’mon’. The accompanying advertising footage featured all the players but had three close-up shots of Hookes doing push-ups, his panting face filling the whole screen. The song also had a line about each Australian player. Hookes’s line was ‘Hookesy’s clearing pickets’ referring to his capacity to send the ball soaring way over the boundary (once a picket fence). The advertisement showed Hookes hitting the ball with his characteristic flair. In his autobiography, Hookes described telling Kerry Packer that he had decided to pull out of the World Series Cricket. Packer

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flew Hookes and his accountant from Adelaide to meet with him in Sydney. Packer took Hookes to a video room and showed him the World Series advertisements that had been prepared for Channel Nine. Hookes observed that he was in most of the advertisements, modestly theorising it was because he was the youngest, instead of the most handsome. Packer then threatened to sue Hookes if he pulled out, saying Hookes would spend the rest of his life paying him. Hookes’s accountant turned to him and said, ‘You’re going to enjoy playing World Series’. Commentator Paul Barry demonstrated the Packer-fuelled power of cricket, writing about the eagerness of politicians of all parties to assist Packer in developing the World Series. In the late 1970s, Neville Wran’s New South Wales ALP government changed the law to let World Series Cricket into the Sydney Cricket Ground and spent taxpayers’ money on floodlights. At about the same time the Liberal national government under Malcolm Fraser agreed to launch a satellite to carry television signals, which Packer said was a matter of urgency. In 1986, the ALP national government under Bob Hawke changed Australia’s broadcasting laws to permit national television networks, greatly increasing the value of Packer’s two television stations.58 The documentary film Cricket in the 70’s, the Chappell Era analysed these tumultuous times. These 1970s cricketers were Marlboro men exuding raw, unpolished energy, nothing like the slick and sophisticated style in vogue today. All that abundant hair of the 1970s, those long-locked, rugged players. The film has many shots of the youthful David Hookes in action, swinging the bat and hitting the ball, interspersed with interviews of Hookes in his forties, confident and relaxed as he commented on the game. The older Hookes was so comfortable with himself. He laughingly explained with self-deprecating good humour how he learned the word ‘swathed’, after a player was injured and was ‘swathed’ in bandages. He was self-assured enough to be filmed discussing adding a new word to his vocabulary.

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The film showed the young Hookes bursting with energetic exuberance running up to team-mate Dennis Lillee, congratulating him on his play and embracing him. He looked happy, on a high, wearing his cricket whites. Footage of his greatest moment was also shown: Hookes striking five fours in a row off Tony Greig during the Centenary Test in 1977. It showed him marching off after his glorious achievement. He took it so well; he puffed and looked down without a hint of boastfulness. The glory suited him. He could easily have been a knight returning from battle, a Viking after a raid.

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GIDEON HAIGH

‘Have you spoken to a journalist called Gideon Haigh?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You told him that you had blocked out of your mind various events of the evening, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Was that the truth?’ ‘Yes.’ TERRY FORREST TRIAL OF

TO

DARREN LEHMANN,

DAY TWO OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Gideon Haigh is an intellectual observer of, amongst other things, cricket. He is a writer and journalist who has written on general subjects such as business, as well as having written three cricket books. ‘I met David Hookes’, said Haigh. ‘He was great value, very forthcoming, told a great story, gave a convincing impression of candour. I liked him and warmed to him. He was very obliging and gave me as much time as I wanted. He was also a shrewd judge of the game. Lots of players can play cricket but few can talk about it in an interesting fashion and that’s something else that set him apart. He was a great raconteur, very entertaining

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and dominated any social group he was in. Also, he was fallible, which was very appealing to the public. He didn’t deliver his promise: how many of us do? He made the best of it. He hadn’t been so successful as a cricketer but he redeemed himself as an individual through his media and sporting career.’ This was something that Hookes himself had said in his biography: ‘[Y]ou can say my career was disappointing. I had some spectacular moments without fulfilling my early promise’.59 Haigh continued: ‘He was a very gifted player but his Test record is pretty modest. I think his reputation was built on his prodigious success for South Australia and his capacity as a leader of men. The thing that really established him in the public eye is that he was a participant in one of the greatest cricket moments on TV. The five fours off Tony Greig in the Centenary Test and getting hit in the jaw by Andy Roberts in 1977. It’s amazing both happened in the same year, but they seemed like they were from two different worlds. One was the crowning glory of one hundred years of Test tradition. The other was the experimental, entrepreneurial version of the game that Kerry Packer had created. He gilded the traditional game with glamour and romance and ten months later authenticated the spectacle of Kerry Packer’s constructed reality by shedding blood for his employer.’ ‘Were you surprised by the level of grief from the public after his death?’ ‘I think there was something authentic about the response to Hookes’s death. It wasn’t all a media construction the way a lot of the response to Don Bradman’s death was. The media had been geared up for mourning Bradman’s death for decades. The first obituary for Bradman was written in 1934 when he was gravely ill. Over the years I wrote about twenty pieces for Bradman supplements which were being prepared for Bradman’s death. He just kept on living and they’d be turned into eightieth birthday, eightyfifth birthday, ninetieth birthday tributes. If you go back and look at all the supplements generated about Bradman, there was a lot

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of material in the works set up for Bradman’s ascendancy into the pantheon. Hookes’s death was against the natural order of things. Cricketers are supposed to live to a ripe old age, they get old with us. David Hookes radiated a kind of eternal youth. He was the youngest player in the Centenary Test, and he turned out to be the first to die. He reversed the order that we had come to expect about the maturation of cricket. ‘Also Hookes was so visible. He wasn’t simply the fadedaway cricketer we could remember from twenty years ago. David Hookes’s life had run in parallel with a whole generation of Australian cricket devotees, a continuous thread from the 1970s, a guarantee of continuity. His death took place in a pub, in an Australian male environment that a lot of people would identify with and would feel disquieted by the fact that this fate could befall someone so familiar and so famous.’ I asked Haigh his views on the link between sport and drinking. ‘Hookes was one of those players who kept the old drinking traditions alive. In some ways he had more in common with the “park” cricketer on the weekend who’d have a drink with his team-mates after a match. He saw the 1970s captaincy of Ian Chappell, who was a great subscriber of the post-match rituals of socialisation and David Hookes deplored the decline of the culture. I think the post-match drinks was one of the things he reintroduced as a coach. It’s ironic that he was killed participating in a tradition he started.’ ‘What did you think of the fiasco of the reporting Hookes’s personal life?’ ‘It happened because he was part of the media, I’ve no doubt about that. Certainly the people who made the decisions about how he was portrayed in the media wouldn’t have felt the same loyalty and affinity if not for his personality. It was more than the protection of a media identity. It was protection of an identity who was a genuine friend. They wouldn’t have done it for just

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anyone. The strange thing is that it was so counter to his personality. He was an extremely outspoken member of the media, and his reputation was for calling it as he saw it. Another factor would have been that the media tends to be perplexed by ambiguities and moral fuzziness, and tend to prefer black and white, separations of right and wrong. Also their instinct is innately conservative. ‘He was one of the media and was also loved by the media. He’d talk to anyone and wouldn’t hold back so the media appreciated him. So many people are cowards in the spotlight and will only talk off the record. He was unafraid of the consequences of his words and actions and didn’t say anything unless he meant it.’ ‘That must have also made him valuable to the media’, I said. ‘Yes. A lot of journalists were dependent on Hookes over the years. He’d talk to anyone. I think he’d inherited that from Ian Chappell. He doesn’t dissemble. Chappell never speaks off the record to anyone, which I really admire. He says, “If I don’t want to tell you something I won’t”. Sometimes people are gutless, evasive and won’t let themselves be quoted because they worry they’ll get themselves into trouble. Hookes was unafraid of the consequences of what he said and that endeared him to people. These days sportsmen prefer to deliver a line of innocuous cliché that offends no one and simply upholsters journalists’ columns and gives the illusion of intimacy and immediacy whereas in fact they do nothing of the sort. Hookes was the opposite of that. He was also a verification of tradition and continuity in sport. People could pretend that nothing in sport had changed when Hookes was around when in fact a hell of a lot has changed.’ ‘How?’ ‘It’s more streamlined, commodified. Sport is becoming very boring and predictable. The characters that it’s turning out are so banal they’re like ready-prepared meals, like two-minute noodles. Sportsmen today are incredibly boring to listen to. You go to a press conference and it’s so boring it’s gruelling.’

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‘Why has it changed so much?’ ‘Because sportsmen are afraid to say what they think lest they alienate broadcasters and advertisers and sponsors. Also, what they think isn’t very interesting anyway with the rise of professionalism. Athletes have spent their entire careers inside the belly of the beast. From early days sportsmen are trained to think of themselves as sportsmen only, to subordinate every other aspect of their character and personality to what they do on the sportsfield. They became monstrously overdeveloped as athletes and monstrously underdeveloped as human beings.’ I later reflected that this phenomenon is a reversal of the historical expectations of elite sportspeople. There was once a huge emphasis on ensuring that they were well-rounded people whose intellect was as important as their physical skills. For example, Japanese samurai warriors had to learn flower arranging, the art of polite conversation and poetry. Similarly medieval knights studied music, reading, writing and social etiquette. ‘Is that because of all the money involved in sport now?’ ‘Yes, but also because you develop according to the influences around you. These days the professional athletes are very insulated and protected from the outside world. They’re allowed to live in a fool’s paradise where improving their personal best is all that matters.’ ‘How much do you think sport is a barometer of what is going on in society?’ ‘It definitely is. That’s why it’s interested me as a writer. If sport was just about what happened on the playing field I’d soon get bored writing about it. People feel more passion and emotion when expressing themselves in sport than they do in other areas of their lives. People feel and express things about sport they wouldn’t even express to their own partners.’ ‘Is that part of its popularity?’ ‘Yes. It’s a bounded space in which displays of emotion or affection are legitimate. It’s also very physical; undressing in front

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of each other in the change-rooms, it’s so intimate. Cricket takes place over such a long period of time, there’s also so much downtime. You spend a lot of time with your team-mates not doing very much. Before and after the game, while waiting to bat you can actually get to know people quite well in a way I don’t think you would in shorter, more physical games such as football.’ ‘How do you explain cricket’s popularity?’ ‘Beats me. That’s what’s so fascinating about cricket, it’s so inexplicable.’

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GERARD HEALY

‘Manslaughter, involving the death of another human being, can obviously excite emotion but you are asked not to act on emotion.’ RAY ELSTON


ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

Gerard Healy was not a cricketer; Australian Rules football was his sport and he had been a Brownlow medallist for the Sydney Swans in 1988, having previously been a star with Melbourne. He and David Hookes were the co-hosts of a popular weekly sports show on the Melbourne radio station 3AW. Many people had spoken about the incredible dynamic between David Hookes and Gerard Healy, saying it was both electric and intimate. The 3AW program director Clark Forbes said they were like ‘an old married couple’ and people had also spoken about the closeness of their friendship off air as well as on. When I met with Steve Price he had referred to their chemistry saying, ‘Gerard and David was an accidental, very successful pairing. They were very different people. Gerard would rock up five minutes before having to go on air, in his shorts and T-shirt having just come back from a surf. David would have already been there for two hours talking to people. Very different but it worked like magic’.

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Healy has said that his friend was a world-class entertainer with an ability to make people laugh. ‘For over a decade,’ said Healy, ‘I would sit there and laugh at his ideas and the retelling of cricket stories. He had me unable to talk I was laughing so much, numerous times during the year’.60 I met Healy at 3AW and, as Price had predicted, he was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and had just finished surfing. It was not long after Hookes’s death and he was raw and shaken. He looked at me and said, ‘I used to walk out of this room in a better mood each day I worked with him. That’s all I want to say’.

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DEATH AND THE ORDINARY

‘You were dispatched by a call at 11.48 p.m. on 18 January 2004 to an assault case?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘That was a signal that was upgraded a couple of minutes later to your top level of alarm?’ ‘Yes.’ JUSTIN BAUM

TO PARAMEDIC

MARCUS STACEY,

THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

DAY NINE OF

The enormity of taking another life is unquantifiable: it breaks the sternest of the Ten Commandments, ‘Thou shalt not kill’. I once watched the vox-pop segment of a popular television show61 when the host interviewed an obviously intelligent, well-educated woman. The woman was Anglo-Saxon, well dressed and articulate. She was the mother of three or four children. She didn’t mention her profession, but I could easily imagine her as a doctor, a lawyer or an academic, perhaps married to someone from a similar professional background. The woman was talking about an experience that had devastated her. She was driving her car and one of her daughters was with her at the time. While driving she suffered a seizure and during the few seconds she blacked out she inadvertently struck and killed a pedestrian.

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The woman wept as she talked. She spoke of the pain she had been living in. Her grief was a permanent stone in her shoe, making her limp through life. I thought of this woman in the days before the trial of Micevic. This woman, apparently dwelling in the Australian empowered class, had clearly processed the event (which wasn’t reported in the media) but was still suffering immensely after inadvertently taking another life. The guilt was constantly gripping her by the throat. Imagine a 21-year-old working-class migrant boy’s state of mind after inadvertently killing a national sporting hero. The horror, the torment. Even in countries where the government sanctions killing through the use of capital punishment, the difficulty of one human taking another human’s life is factored into the process. I recently read an article describing capital punishment in Indonesia, which uses the method of death by firing squad. The article said that ‘Half of the twelve member firing squad used live ammunition and the rest had blanks so no one would carry the guilt of knowing for certain they had fired a fatal shot’.62 Dr Robert Sparrow is a lecturer at Monash University’s Centre for Human Bioethics. ‘Do you think that Hookes’s death taps into some sort of biological, self-preserving fear of death that we have?’ I asked. ‘I wouldn’t say there is much biological going on here,’ he said. ‘This situation is so clearly cultural. It’s cultural in our society that men get drunk and hit each other in pubs. It’s cultural that we revere sportspeople, Hookes himself is such a cultural construction. Many societies around the world wouldn’t elevate someone whose talent is to hit a ball with a bat to such a high level.’ ‘What about the concepts “good” and “bad”?’ I asked Sparrow. ‘They were bandied around by the media after Hookes died. Do you think they exist? Can they be applied in any way to Hookes and Micevic?’ ‘They are very simplistic terms’, said Sparrow. ‘I know the media liked to say good Hookes killed by bad Micevic but have a

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look at his death from a different angle. Hookes, in his late forties, an elite sportsman, wealthy, famous, immensely successful. What on earth was he doing punching a 21-year-old, poorly paid migrant doing his part-time job? A difficult job with appalling work conditions, being abused, taking non-stop flak from drunken and aggressive patrons with the constant threat of violence hanging over his head. Perhaps people turned to “good” and “bad” here because to not do so is a reminder that not only can we accidentally die, but we can accidentally kill someone. Any time a punch is thrown – as they frequently are in schoolyard brawls, punch-ups at home or in the pub, someone may die. I think that if we demonise Micevic and say he was an unusually bad man we are asserting each other’s right to keep punching each other. If we say Micevic was an ordinary man who was involved in an unfortunate accident during the course of his employment, it becomes too confronting. It becomes something that could happen to anyone.’ The ordinariness that Dr Sparrow referred to was something that I too had been thinking about after seeing a series of paintings by the Australian painter Jeffrey Smart. Smart takes the ordinary and makes it extraordinary. An ugly bridge crossing an unloved freeway becomes a poignant symbol of isolation. Under his deft paintbrush, a row of industrial transport containers become a string of precious coloured jewels, a thing of great beauty. The death of David Hookes does the reverse of this. His death makes one realise that the extraordinary, the idols, the superheroes can in the blink of an eye be stripped right back to the fragile, utterly ordinary concoction that we all are. It shows that the gifted, those blessed with astonishing talents and huge personalities are as vulnerable as the rest of us ordinary mortals: susceptible to life’s misfortunes and pains. On the terrible night of David Hookes’s death, Darren Lehmann, the well-known popular cricketer who called the ambulance, became just someone desperately trying to help his

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injured friend. All hint of his celebrity disappeared in this matter of life and death. Instead of a sports star he was a panicked friend, trying to help. Death strips bare the petty rankings, the hubris. Our true essence emerges in the face of death. We become a privileged witness to the being hidden behind the social mask constructed, layer upon layer, over the years. What does the ordinariness of it all mean? There is no ‘other,’ we are all the same, irrespective of rank or status. We are all so fragile and vulnerable. The tables can be suddenly turned. We all can be Bonfire of the Vanities character Sherman McCoy, master of the universe one moment, degraded and destitute the next. As Demetris Demetriou, one of the witnesses in the trial of Zdravko Micevic said: ‘I didn’t know they were cricketers at the time. They were just normal people to me.’

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ROB ZADOW

‘The devastation of the felling of David Hookes clearly had a traumatic effect on each of those people.’ RAY ELSTON

TO JURORS, DAY TEN OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

One of the cricketers I interviewed said that Rob Zadow is ‘in the Grand Final for the world’s best human being’. Zadow was David Hookes’s friend, manager and accountant. He was involved in organising Hookes’s memorial service at the Adelaide Oval, the Organ Donation Foundation commemorative book and took over the many legal and administrative tasks that arose after Hookes’s death. Indeed, after listening to Zadow describe all that he did in the months following Hookes’s death, I felt a sense of wonder that someone could be so very, very involved in someone else’s life. ‘I became spokesman for the cricket team’, he said. ‘I also ran David’s mobile phone and took all the calls meant for him. I dealt with the press, the lawyers and the real estate agent. I helped clean out his place, I took over his car and office. I took six months off work and devoted myself to sorting out everything that had to be dealt with after David’s death. My work was very supportive during that time, so was my wife Leonie who was also very

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involved. Leonie was one of the few women that Hookes would listen to. He really respected her.’ Zadow drew a large pie chart for me on the whiteboard opposite the table we were seated at. Each segment of the pie represented a different aspect of Zadow’s relationship with Hookes. One segment was business advice, one was sporting ties, one was friendship, and one was management. ‘He and I were like yin and yang’, said Zadow. ‘My low-key personality complemented his extravagant flair. The night of my 50th birthday party was the night that he was hit. It was a surprise party, there were overseas guests. ‘I coped with the shock of his death by being flippant about it. For example, I had the urn of David’s ashes with me for about a week. I kept them under my desk at work, and I’d refer to them as “my mate”. When I flew interstate from Melbourne back to Adelaide I booked a separate seat for the ashes on the plane. I even introduced him to the flight attendant and said, “This is my mate David Hookes”. On the security conveyor belt at the airport I said to the guys working there, “This is my mate. Don’t open it, I don’t want him to blow away”. It was my way of coping with it all. ‘He was so clever, such a quick wit. He had an incredible ability to paraphrase, which was useful for his media career. Things were starting to unravel a bit for him though, towards the end. Things were starting to come out, and also he was under a lot of pressure. He took no holidays, he was always writing articles for the press, doing his television and radio. Things were great for him in one way, but very hard in another.’

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ALCOHOL

‘A person who has been consuming alcohol, their reflexes are affected, their capacity to behave in an appropriate way, as we all know, is affected.’ TERRY FORREST,

DAY ELEVEN OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

David Hookes’s death, outside the Beaconsfield Hotel, was an alcohol-related one and it is an irony that his wake was held at a pub. David Crosbie, Chief Executive of Odyssey House wrote that: The death of David Hookes was part of a pandemic of drink-related violence. It was part of a much larger tragedy in Australia of lost lives, countless injuries, assaults and other crimes … David Hookes should be alive today. So should hundreds of others who have been involved in alcohol-fuelled violence. As one weekend passes and another approaches we can be confident there will be more alcohol-related violence: men who have had too much to drink will beat up or will be beaten up by other men who have had too much to drink. Some people will suffer severe injuries, some will die. Most of this violence goes unreported in the media: it’s not a news story unless there is a celebrity involved.63

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When I initially began researching the relationship between sport and alcohol, I took to cutting articles out of the newspaper detailing incidents involving the two. I soon abandoned the project as I was swamped. Each week there were articles about footballers, cricketers and other elite sportsmen involved in drunken punch-ups, destruction of property or driving offences. All had the themes of violence after excessive drinking involved. Around the same time I abandoned my overflowing ‘sports and alcohol’ file, the plastic David Boon – ‘Booney’ – dolls were introduced as part of the marketing strategy of Victoria Bitter (VB) beer. David Boon was a cricketer renowned for having drunk fifty-two cans of beer in 1989 on a flight from Australia to London for the Ashes tour. The dolls were a miniature replica of Boon and were given to anyone buying a slab of VB during the one-day cricket series between Australia, Sri Lanka and South Africa. These Booney dolls were more than just a cute piece of kitsch: they talked! Booney was activated an hour before each one-day game by his internal timer. His first words were ‘Get me a VB, the cricket is about to start’. The computer chip inside Booney made him comment during the cricket matches, making remarks about cricket and constantly suggesting that viewers drink a beer while they watched, saying things like ‘Got a beer yet?’ The campaign was the most expensive one VB had ever done and within six months a quarter of a million dolls had been sold. ‘Hitting guys’ eyeballs in summer is incredibly important for VB’, said Cameron MacFarlane, Foster’s marketing manager of beer, and added that the cost of the Booney dolls was only possible to be carried with, as well as the volume of VB sales, the ‘established links to Australian cricket’. Hitting eyeballs is certainly what VB did. I don’t know how much money VB threw to Cricket Australia, but it must have been substantial. Since 1996 Carlton & United Breweries (CUB), which owns VB, has been the major sponsor of one-day international cricket in Australia. The CUB website also states that ‘It is … the

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official supplier of beer products to Australian teams at home and overseas’. This meant that for a vast sum of money they gave the Australian cricketers free beer to drink, so that the cricketers would be photographed drinking their brand of beer after the games. In 2001 VB made a five-year agreement with Cricket Australia, which included renaming Australia’s one-day international tournament the ‘VB Series’. I watched one of the VB Series matches in February 2006: Australia played Sri Lanka. The VB marketers had truly gotten to work, although I imagine the marketing strategy would have taken a mere minute or two to write as it seemed to simply be ‘Put our logo on every possible exposed surface’. The ubiquitousness of the VB logo made me think of a child given a crayon and told she was allowed to scribble anywhere she liked. There were two huge VB labels painted on the lawn, looking like giant alcoholic Easter eggs. The cricket uniforms were emblazoned with VB and each stump had Victoria Bitter painted vertically on it, like alcoholic totem-poles. The post-game interview with captain Ricky Ponting took place in front of a wall that had the VB logo alternating with the Cricket Australia logo. The only thing missing, which perhaps the marketers will add next year, was insisting that the players paint the VB logo on their foreheads. The Sri Lankan players provided a lovely juxtaposition. They were sponsored by Dilmah tea, and players wore the Dilmah logo on their uniforms: ‘Dilmah – The Finest Tea in Ceylon’. The Sri Lankan ‘eyeballs being hit’ were implored to sit down with a freshly brewed cup of tea. An even starker contrast to the Australian team is the Pakistani cricket team. The Pakistan Cricket Board came to an agreement with the cricket officials allowing the Pakistani players to be exempt from wearing the Johnnie Walker logo during the Australian 2005 Super Series which was sponsored by the whisky company. A representative from the Pakistani team said that ‘We have informed the [cricket

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officials] that our players will in no manner promote the [alcohol] logos or other promotional material’.64 Around $100 million is spent annually on alcohol advertising in Australia, a figure which does not include the vast sums poured into sponsorship of sporting events such as the one-day cricket.65 The Age described the advertising for alcohol consumption as reaching saturation level and has editorialised that ‘The link between sport and alcohol has seemingly become a quintessential part of Australian life’. 66 The problem, like so many others, comes down to money. When a corporation is willing to pay vast quantities of money it is difficult to resist. Cricket Australia succumbed to the siren song of the dollar. Interestingly the siren song was once whispered in Cricket Australia’s receptive ear by another killer: the tobacco industry. In the 1980s Australian cricket was sponsored by Benson & Hedges. For $15 million, the tobacco company received seventy-two hours of television coverage and 40 000 exposures of the name Benson & Hedges. Critics of the tobacco sponsorship used almost the exact same words of criticism used by the opponents of alcohol sponsorship today.67 The Cricket Board even took disciplinary action against cricketer Greg Matthews for his role in an anti-smoking commercial in 1992. After Matthews appeared in the advertisement crushing a packet of cigarettes, the Australian Cricket Board changed its player contracts to prevent team members from damaging the reputation of their sponsor.68 I discussed this with John Rogerson, who is the director of the Good Sport Program. ‘Most sporting clubs hold licences to serve alcohol and depend heavily on the revenue for sales’, he said. ‘The Good Sport program was given $1.4 million solely for working on breaking down the powerful connection between alcohol and sport. Sport is an easy way for the alcohol industry to get to young guys. Revenue is a big issue both at the community level of cricket and the elite level. At the community level,

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people worry about the revenue to keep their club running, but at the elite level the marketing people get very nervous. There are huge sums of money involved: alcohol is their biggest advertiser. After we presented our “Good Sports” program at the cricket, their marketing people were extremely concerned about our program. The implication was that if we push this hard the cricket may lose its advertising dollar.’ This immediately brought to my mind the problems experienced by the anti-smoking efforts in the 1980s. ‘Where there’s lots of young men there’s lots of drinking’ said Rogerson. ‘Post-match drinks are OK as long as they’re done properly. At the elite level after a game they rehydrate properly but at the community level they don’t. As the elite cricketers walk into a change-room after a match they’re handed a beer to be photographed with. The cost to our community is enormous.’ Former Victorian cricket captain Darren Berry talked about how the Boxing Day Test is being ruined by drunken louts and how responsible parents would be advised to keep their children away. The alcohol watchdog Grogwatch referred to Berry’s comment and wrote: Will Cricket Australia get it? When elite players think their safety and the game itself is threatened by drunks is it appropriate for the sponsor to appoint a celebrated binge drinker [referring to David Boon] as its ambassador? [I]s a beer sponsor the best option? Cricket Australia might start to repair the damage by appointing a sponsor whose product is not implicated in bringing the game into disrepute.69

Hookes grew up in an era with a much heavier culture of drinking and had said: If I have a regret it’s that as a youngster I probably didn’t prepare myself properly for each day’s play … [T]here were times when I had a bit much to drink. I was one of the ‘goodtime guys’. It was the norm of cricket in those days … I just

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sort of drifted with the flow. Every night during a Shield match was an occasion for after-play drinks, laughs and mateship in a player’s room back at the hotel or motel … Maybe my lifestyle, more so in the early days, shouldn’t be regretted because I was in the system of the time. And it’s hard to imagine one of the more senior players … saying: ‘Hey Hookesy, this is not right. Get off to bed’. It was a different era and I think it was a more enjoyable off-the-field era than it is now. There seemed to be more socialising and friendship among opposing teams.70

Cricketer and former Australian captain Ian Chappell wrote, ‘Hookesy loved sitting around with the cricketers, beer in hand, discussing the game,’ and many of the cricketers I spoke to also loved the tradition. Alan Border, another former Australian captain, has spoken of the joy of carrying ‘an ice-cold slab of beer into the opposition rooms’.71 Cricketer Robbie Cassell said how much he enjoyed a post-match drink. So many people said with great affection that ‘David Hookes loved a beer’. By this they meant the sitting and talking, laughing, joking and analysing of the game that occurred with the social lubricant of a cold beer. They certainly did not mean the aggression-inducing, inhibitionreducing fuel that contributed to his death. Research from the Australian Institute of Sport showed that athletes involved in team sports may be at greater risk of excessive drinking compared with individual athletes because ‘drinking is important to form a bond with other players’.72 I watched the televised 2006 Allan Border Medal. Former Australian cricketer Doug Walters stood at the podium and regaled the audience with tale after tale of how much the Australian team drank when they were young bucks flying to tours. He chuckled over drinks in the departure airport lounge, drinks on the plane, drinks in the arrival airport lounge, shaking his head with admiring disbelief at the vast number of beers consumed. As Walters carried on, reliving his glory days, host Eddie

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McGuire stood next to him, smiling and nodding approvingly while clutching the small plastic Booney doll. The spectacle brought to mind a group of 18-year-old boys, legally allowed into the pub at last, boasting about how much they all drank before throwing up in the car park. Author Vikram Seth wrote that ‘Perhaps it is true that for all the evidence of the mirror, one pictures oneself in some deep niche of the mind as forever eighteen’.73 The prime sporting years of these former champion cricketers Doug Walters, David Boon and David Hookes were also their prime drinking years. These cricketers, past their prime, were reliving their glory days. Darryl Smeaton is the CEO of the Australian Alcohol Education and Rehabilitation Foundation. He was a numbers man and his head was full of figures and statistics, all within easy access. Smeaton did not have a stern, frowning attitude to drinking. He thought that drinking was fine if done responsibly, but that Australia has a drinking problem and in particular sporting Australia has a serious drinking problem. ‘We shouldn’t think that drinking is bad. It’s not but the way we drink is bad’, he said. ‘Our problem with alcohol isn’t dependency, fewer than 5 per cent of Australians are alcoholics. Our problem is the way we drink. There is much more binge drinking.’ Smeaton handed me the results of a project by the National Drug Research Institute showing the figures for alcoholattributable assault deaths in Australia. They showed that in 2003 one hundred and thirty people died in assaults where alcohol was a factor in the death. There are 3500 alcohol-related deaths each year in Australia, which is about ten a day. There are 85 000 people hospitalised each year in Australia from alcohol-related injury. These figures include assaults, drunken falls and alcoholrelated car crashes. ‘I think Australians are bad drunks’, Smeaton said ‘It’s almost an Anglo-Saxon trait as well; around the world the countries with

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the worst alcohol problems are the UK, Australia, New Zealand and the USA, all the Anglo-Saxon countries. The World Health Organisation has done a great deal of research into the role of alcohol in the world today. It has said alcohol is the second-highest in terms of “burden of disease” in the world and the secondhighest cause of death. It also says that because alcohol is no ordinary commodity it should be treated like any other dangerous substance in terms of world trade, such as tobacco or illicit drugs. ‘In my view alcohol is the most dangerous drug in terms of safety. Even though tobacco kills more people, alcohol is more dangerous because with alcohol one’s personal safety is at risk: all the brawls and punch-ups in pubs aren’t because of tobacco. Alcohol is the only mind-altering substance you can use safely. If you drink in moderation you can drink each day and never have a problem, whereas no smoking or no illicit drug use is ever safe. ‘Alcohol is a drug, one of our problems is that Australians don’t accept that. In 1997 the government launched a “tough on drugs” program which had a big focus on illicit drugs. There had been lots of heroin problems and a big media focus on heroin. That was necessary, but society has lost sight that alcohol is the most dangerous drug in the community. Whenever there is an ecstasy death, and there is approximately one a year, the media goes crazy. Part of this is that journalists drink: they don’t want to demonise themselves, it’s easier to demonise others, they’re generally not junkies or ecstasy takers but they drink. Also the alcohol industry is one of the biggest advertisers, especially on television. The alcohol ads are the funniest and most memorable ads. I don’t have a problem with the ads, advertising doesn’t make people drink more, it just makes them change their brand. Because of the huge amounts of money the alcohol industry has, their advertisments are usually the most imaginative and entertaining ones you’ll see on television. ‘Australia has a sporting culture which encourages heavy drinking. It’s hard to see another nation as sports conscious as

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Australia. We have a huge tradition of participation. For the alcohol industry it’s obviously the way to go in terms of sales, to target sport. ‘Sporting clubs are at the centre of social life for many Australians and sport and alcohol have a very long history together. Cricket is up there at the top of the list – cricketers are big drinkers. In total there are about 30 000 sporting clubs in Australia. In country Australia, all sporting clubs are linked to a pub. The pub becomes the club; after the game they go to pub. The alcohol industry is the biggest supporter of amateur sport: the local pub will sponsor the local sports team. They’ll provide footy jumpers and part of the deal is that the team continues to support the pub: the players go and drink there after the game, have endof-year functions and end-of-season dinners there. That’s not all negative in small country towns – sport is the glue that keeps it all together. It’s a men’s problem, young men learn their drinking habits through sport.’ Smeaton quoted the former AFL coach David Parkin, who said ‘My biggest failing is that I wasn’t aware of the bingedrinking culture on players’ days off. I was so focused on the rules of the game, keeping them on the straight and narrow during the week, I was unaware of the drinking at the end of games.’ ‘The Federal Government gets $5.8 billion excise tax from alcohol, so it could easily be a $50 billion a year industry’, continued Smeaton. ‘Their sponsorship is worth hundreds of millions of dollars each year. We wouldn’t have the level and quality of elite sport in Australia without the alcohol industry. Look at horse racing, rugby, cricket, football and the level of alcohol sponsorship there.’ This was something David Crosbie has also written about. He referred to the political and economic power of the alcohol producers and retailers and argued that there is a degree of political risk in any policy that seeks to impose restrictions on their profitability.

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‘We’ve done some great things about alcohol awareness in this country, such as the drink-driving campaigns, but we’ve got a long way to go,’ Smeaton said. ‘Cultural change takes a long time. Twenty-five years ago we thought it was OK to drink and drive as long as we didn’t get caught. We thought it was OK to get sunburnt until the “slip slop slap” campaign. The challenge is how we do change the culture of alcohol? I think we need to get people to appreciate the harm and we need to get the media involved, but it’s so hard because of the role of alcohol in advertising. All that money being thrown around.’

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THE SUPREME COURT OF VICTORIA

‘This is a beautiful old building, ladies and gentlemen, built in 1884, but the problem with buildings built in 1884 is that they’ve all got about sixteen doors in them and it’s very easy to get lost.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS


ZDRAVKO MICEVIC.

The Supreme Court is a grand old building that is criss-crossed with long corridors and cobblestone lanes. There is a central courtyard in the Supreme Court, above which towers a high dome. Under the dome is a distinguished library that would look at home in Elizabethan England. It had been many years since I had been to the Supreme Court and I had forgotten its stuffy, rarefied atmosphere. It feels like being sent to the principal’s office. You feel the need to be on your best behaviour, to whisper or speak in a soft voice even when the Court is not in session. There are many different court rooms in the building, and each is outfitted with heavy, dark wooden furniture and crimson carpet. The witnesses and the judge speak into a microphone during proceedings, a touch of modernity that seems oddly incongruous with the old-world surroundings. Upon entering or leaving

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the court room, you have to bow to the judge; the staff have quaint names such as ‘tipstaff’ and ‘prothonotary’ that hark back to our colonial origins. The court emanates importance, which of course is appropriate: what could be more important than the place where people’s liberty is given or taken away? The building also has a certain shabbiness. The mushroom-coloured paint is peeling here and there, the bathroom tiles are cracked and several light globes needed replacing. There is a warren of corridors leading to the different court rooms. There are signposts placed at regular intervals along the way but the building is so hotchpotch they barely make a difference. I saw many people wandering around looking dazed and asking for directions. Stripped of all this atmosphere, analysing a trial by reading the transcripts is rather like spying on a magician at the end of a stage show. Without the context of the grandiose court room with all the emotion, the gesticulation, the voice inflections gone, no weeping witnesses, or mutterings, or exclamations of disbelief: with just the bare words on the page all becomes clear as you observe the hidden compartment for the rabbit in the top hat, the pocket concealing a dove in the sleeve and the trapdoor where the assistant is stashed.

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TRUTH

‘I submit to you that there’s a number of witnesses in this case who we don’t say are liars or have any particular motive for coming along and embellishing the truth but when their evidence is scrutinised against other evidence … you would consider their evidence unreliable … for you to act upon with safety in a criminal trial of a most important and serious charge.’ TERRY FORREST, TRIAL OF

CLOSING ADDRESS, DAY ELEVEN OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

The theme of truth, the meaning of it and the search for it kept emerging throughout the trial. Truth had an odd role in the case and it was difficult to decipher exactly what its function was. It brought to mind a former colleague of mine who always looked terribly busy and exuded an air of importance, but nobody ever knew what he was working on or who he was doing it for. On the one hand it was emphasised that the case wasn’t about a search for truth. The defence counsel said, ‘There were no videos in the pub; no one will ever know exactly what happened. The justice system doesn’t ask for the truth, only that you are satisfied of guilt beyond reasonable doubt.’ On the other hand the defence’s case rested significantly on what they bitingly called the

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lack of truth offered by the cricketers – the witnesses for the prosecution. Although the defence lawyers didn’t try to find the truth of the night, what actually happened that caused David Hookes’s death, it was very important for them to show that the prosecution witnesses were being untruthful. They could not have put it in plainer terms. The role of truth is one of the major differences between the adversarial system of law and the inquisitorial system. The inquisitorial system is used throughout Europe and in parts of Asia. The sole aim in the inquisitorial system is to find the truth. This is in contrast to the adversarial system used in commonlaw countries such as Australia. It is the system under which Zdravko Micevic was tried. In the adversarial system both parties strive to win the case but no one strives to show the truth. In the Peanuts comic strip, the character Linus waits patiently each Hallowe’en for the Great Pumpkin to rise from the pumpkin patch. Year after year he waits, wondering if the Great Pumpkin will emerge. Truth is the Great Pumpkin of our system. It may or may not emerge, as everyone is so focused on emphasising the evidence that suits their side of the story. Although certain people following the case, such as the victim’s family, may desperately want to know the truth, the pumpkin-patch court room is not the place to wait, hoping for its arrival. The prosecution and the defence both present their versions of the night, their differing versions of the truth. As the prosecutor said in his closing address, to put it mildly, ‘There’s a diversity of recollections of events as to what happened.’ From the perspective of the cricketers, the night began in an upbeat and celebratory way. There were good reasons to be to be in high spirits. The cricket team Hookes coached, the Victorian Bushrangers, had just enjoyed a hard-earned victory: they had defeated South Australia in a one-day match. A group of players along with their girlfriends and a few others connected to the team met at the pub for a drink. There was dancing, drinking,

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laughing, and light-hearted merriment. Of course there were a few minor dramas, such as a tiff between cricketer Mick Lewis and his girlfriend Sue-Anne Hunter, but generally all was pleasant until closing time. At closing time the lights went on in the pub. Micevic walked into the glassed room where David Hookes was consoling Hunter, and asked them to leave. ‘Not a problem,’ said Hookes, ‘she’s just going to finish her drink’ to which Micevic replied, ‘Tell that bitch to skol her drink’. Hookes spoke up: ‘That’s no way to talk to a young girl, and it’s not a very responsible thing to say’. Hookes was polite and well behaved at all times. Micevic grabbed Hookes in a choking headlock, making it difficult for Hookes to breathe. His friends implored Micevic to release Hookes, but to no avail. Micevic grabbed one of the women’s hands, breaking off her fingernails. When the group left the pub and began walking to their cars, which were parked in Cowderoy Street, they were followed by the bouncers who were angry with the group’s earlier resistance to leaving. Hookes and the cricketers implored, ‘We’re going, we just want to go home.’ Micevic called Hookes a ‘smart arse’ and threatened to kill him. Hookes replied, ‘Oh, you’re a tough boy’. After a few minutes of jostling and tussling, Micevic strode forward to where Hookes was standing, on his own, and punched Hookes in the face as he stood, defenceless. From the perspective of the security officers at the pub, the night had also commenced in an uneventful way. At closing time Micevic had, as standard procedure dictated, told the patrons to leave, including Hookes and Hunter in the little glass room. Although Micevic only used professional language and did not swear, Hookes swore aggressively at Micevic, saying to him ‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you’. Despite the victory, Hookes had arrived at the pub in a bad mood, struggling with various personal problems, one of which he was discussing with Hunter. His belligerence continued until Micevic was forced to lawfully eject him, grabbing him by his arms. Hookes resisted, and struggled with

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Micevic, swearing and screaming as he did so. The women in the cricketers’ group leapt on Micevic, one breaking her fingernails on him, another ripping his security tag. A requirement imposed on the hotel by the Administrative Appeals Tribunal was that the security officers patrol Cowderoy Street, so in keeping with the requirement, the group of security officers on patrol followed the cricketers. Hookes was incensed at having been ejected and continued screaming abuse at Micevic. He threatened to give the pub ‘a spray’ on his radio show the next day, and screamed that ‘heads will roll’ and the security officers would lose their jobs: ‘You listen to the radio tomorrow, your heads will fucking spin, you’re fucked. I’ll close this place down, you won’t have a job tomorrow’. Hookes was standing in the middle of a tight group that were pushing and shoving each other. A physical tussle broke out and Hookes grabbed Micevic by the shirt and punched him twice in the stomach. Hookes pulled him down again holding Micevic’s head on his chest. Scared of being hit a third time, Micevic swung out blindly, punching Hookes in the face. What could a jury possibly make of such a mess, such constantly conflicting positions? The defence acknowledged this during the trial, saying: ‘This case comes down to competing versions. The Micevic version which is supported by some and the varying versions the Crown [prosecution] relies on. It is hard to believe that some of the witnesses … were viewing the same incident as some of the others.’ If the version told by the cricket witnesses was believed by the jury, Micevic would be convicted of manslaughter. It was therefore important for the defence lawyers to convince the jury that the cricketers’ version was not to be believed. This was essentially done by making out that they were lying drunks. Defence counsel Terry Forrest put it simply: ‘Prosecutor Ray Elston said an offensive remark was made by the bouncer. We say it was quite the opposite’. He then demonstrated this view by

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systematically working through the prosecution witnesses and arguing that they were either lying, intoxicated, suffering from poor eyesight or a combination of all of these. The court room is the only environment where the ordinary rules of etiquette are reversed: you can publicly call someone a lying drunk, or draw attention to their physical disability. Shaun Graf was the general manager of cricket operations at Cricket Victoria and also a former cricket player. Forrest asked Graf in great detail what he heard and saw that night: did he hear the swearing from the cricketers, the threats Hookes made to abuse the pub on his radio show, the scuffle Hookes was in the centre of, Hookes dragging Micevic down, the two punches by Hookes to Micevic’s stomach? Graf replied that he saw and heard none of these. They then had the following exchange: ‘I suggest to you … you are not being entirely frank with us.’ ‘Mate … I swore on the Bible and I’ve been telling the truth.’ ‘You are only prepared to remember what you believe is totally favourable to the cricketing group.’ ‘Totally incorrect.’ ‘During the entire evening you do not see one aggressive act from the cricket group or hear one aggressive word. Is that your position?’ ‘Yes.’ Same with cricketer Mick Lewis, who stated that he did not recall hearing any swearing, threats or abuse from David Hookes, despite having been near him during the altercation. Forrest asked him: ‘Are you tailoring your account to suit?’ ‘No.’ ‘Are you trying to put a spin on this? Are you trying to produce a sanitised version of what has occurred?’ ‘No.’ ‘I suggest that’s completely wrong.’ Nurse Leesa Jane Rogerson stated at the trial that she saw Micevic ‘jog out’ and punch Hookes in the face, where upon

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Hookes fell straight back like a tree. Forrest immediately tackles her eyesight, which he implies must be poor to see things the way she did. He spent some time asking about when she wore glasses, how she hadn’t been wearing them when she witnessed the incident, the fact that she’d gone up a prescription and he prefaced questions to Rogerson with ‘within the limitations of your eyesight’. Forrest then moved on to Rogerson’s alcohol consumption, saying, ‘You’d been drinking wine, and there was no reason to watch what you drank because you weren’t driving’. She had drunk five or six glasses and Forrest noted that the pub ‘wasn’t stingy with their glasses, they were reasonably sized glasses, which would have had some effect on your sobriety’. Mr Chow was another witness who stated at the trial that he saw from his apartment window a non-aggressive Hookes standing with his hands by his sides before being hit by Micevic. Forrest said that ‘Mr Chow is no different to the rest of us. He suffers from human frailty like the rest of us’. He created doubt about the veracity of Chow’s evidence. His opening question was constructed to make the jury think Chow was groggy, in a sleepinduced daze. ‘Were you asleep perhaps a minute before you saw what you say you saw?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You were watching events for fifteen to thirty seconds?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You’d been asleep for a couple of hours and you were woken by noises in the street?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Do you suffer from astigmatism?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Did you put your glasses on?’ ‘No.’ Forrest said later that ‘The evidence of the cricket group has been selective, has been designed to place a rose-coloured version

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on what happened’, and that the cricket witnesses provided ‘mischievous revisionist history, the writing of history to preserve reputations and honour rather than what really happened’. Incredulous, he then works his way through the reasons that the cricket witnesses didn’t hear or see Hookes’s aggressive behaviour. One had an extraordinarily convenient case of amnesia, another had the ‘slide show memory’. One ‘blocked things out’ and another was so deep in conversation he didn’t hear anything. ‘Look at the inherent probabilities.’ says Forrest. ‘Does this sound right, does it square with my human experience?’ These questions were of course intended to be rhetorical: in relation to the cricketer’s evidence the answer, implied Terry Forrest, must surely be no. There was one witness, Wayne Phillips, whose view matched the defence’s perspective, so he had to be propped up and applauded: ‘If you were giving witness ratings for honesty he’d be right at the top’. ‘These discrepancies’, said Forrest, ‘can’t live with each other and we suggest that there was a good deal more going on than the cricketers were prepared to say, except Phillips who is an honest man.’ After reading this part of the transcript I made an appointment to see Professor Tony Coady, at the University of Melbourne’s Centre for Applied Philosophy and Public Ethics. Professor Coady had written a book, Testimony, on the nature and depth of our reliance on the spoken word – testimony – in our legal system and as a source of knowledge. Coady’s office was in a Gothic-style building complete with a quadrangle of manicured lawn surrounded by columns, bay windows and towers. I told Coady about what I had read in the trial transcripts and asked him his views on the role of truth. ‘The courts aren’t interested in the truth’, he answered. ‘They are only interested in the outcome between contesting lawyers. A great virtue of our

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adversarial system is that lawyers can do these things to get their client off. If you thought that truth was the most important virtue you may go to the European inquisitorial system where they don’t have lawyers presenting competing attacks on the witnesses. The judge is in charge of the investigation and the rules are more geared towards finding the truth. Of course the drawback of the inquisitorial system is that it doesn’t protect the rights of the accused as much, and you end up with people convicted in the inquisitorial system that wouldn’t be in the adversarial system.’ ‘That surely must be regarded as a huge drawback,’ I said, ‘when someone’s liberty is at stake’. ‘Yes, it is. Though truth may be established in the inquisitorial system, other important values are upheld in our system, such as the rights of the individual against the extreme power that the police and the courts can yield. The adversarial system places many restrictions on evidence that aren’t there in the inquisitorial system. It’s a trade off: the important value of the protection of individual rights versus the important value of truth. Our system allows lots of leeway to pressure the witnesses. The lawyers will always desperately try to show that someone has lied about something which is meant to show they generally can’t be believed. In actual fact that’s not right, it doesn’t fit basic human psychology. If someone lies in an unrelated way – let’s say to avoid embarrassment – that does not mean that they have a general tendency to lie about other things.’ This is something that Coady had also written about. He referred to academic Richard Egglestan’s research indicating that ‘[W]itnesses who would not be prepared to lie to gain a personal advantage and who were ready to speak awkward truths on matters which they thought relevant to an inquiry, would none the less lie about matters which they thought irrelevant to the facts in issue when the truth would prove embarrassing, as they believed, for themselves or others.

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In other words, Egglestan argued that, even as a working rule, the maxim, ‘Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus’ (false in one, false in all) misdescribed normal psychology although it was implicitly followed in legal practice. This was very helpful for me to bear in mind as I made my way through the transcripts and read the shaming of one witness after another.

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‘I think the press tend to use the word bouncer which is a perfectly well-known Australian word and there’s no objection to it in the press, but I think in Court we should use some word which is not a colloquialism.’ ‘I think we accept that inevitably someone’s going to use the word bouncer.’ ‘Someone might mention it and it won’t be the end of the world if they do but let’s do our best to say security employee.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS TRIAL OF

TO

TERRY FORREST,

DAY ONE OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Driving to interview Micevic’s solicitors, I turned on my car radio. Coincidently, there was ABC radio’s Jon Faine talking about Terry Forrest. The superlatives flowed during the discussion about Forrest’s recent successes, including defending a footballer at the game’s tribunal hearing as well as his success with Micevic. ‘I think Terry Forrest is worth every cent they pay him’, Faine pronounced, then added with good-humoured chutzpah, ‘I suppose he has to somehow pay for his fleet of classic cars’. Zdravko Micevic was represented by Terry Forrest and the prosecution was represented by Ray Elston. Forrest is a Queen’s

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Counsel, commonly abbreviated to QC and Ray Elston is a Senior Counsel, or SC. These titles indicate seniority and expertise, highlevel experience and a great deal of peer respect. QCs and SCs generally command huge fees from their clients who usually pay – in times of dire and desperate need – with the sense that they are using the ‘top’ practitioners, the very best that a large amount of money can buy. Every time Terry Forrest’s name came up it was clear he was held in high regard, and seeing him in action I instantly understood why. Many barristers, especially ones at the senior level, exude an air of pomp and condescension. Not so Forrest. His personal style was friendly and unpretentious and it became apparent why I so often heard the refrain ‘juries love him’. He had the common touch combined with an intelligent charm. While I was chatting to one of the officials working at the Supreme Court, he casually said, ‘The second I heard that Micevic was using Terry Forrest, I knew he’d walk free’. Throughout the trial Forrest wove sporting analogies and themes into his arguments, using terminology from a range of sports including racing, boxing, rugby and football. He referred to ‘being at the clock tower’, an ‘each-way bet for the defence’, ‘arguing the toss’, ‘a rolling maul’ and ‘a mover and a puncher’. Many people I interviewed, including both those who had been in the witness stand and those watching from the gallery, spoke about how comfortable this made them feel. They loved sport, it was their comfort zone, and in the intimidating environment of the Supreme Court hearing references to their familiar passion made them feel slightly more relaxed. I wondered if Forrest’s language was chosen because this was a trial filled with sportspeople, and if he was working on, say, a medical case whether there would be medical references and analogies. I had asked Detective Senior Sergeant Charlie Bezzina his opinion of Micevic’s defence team and he answered: ‘I’ve got a lot of respect for Terry Forrest, he’s a very nice guy and very pleasant

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to deal with. It makes my job a lot easier dealing with someone like him. Sometimes there’s absolutely no affiliation with the defence which can make things difficult. It was my first case with Terry and I was most impressed with him. I made a point of going up to Terry and telling him that he was very eloquent in conducting the defence. I’ve also known Brian Rolfe for more than twenty years, and there’s a lot of mutual respect there as well’. I asked Bezzina, ‘So many people have said to me that Terry Forrest is very good with juries, how much of a factor do you think that was in the result?’ ‘Given the strong evidence I had, the result speaks for itself. He did a very, very good job.’ The precise significance of the Terry Forrest factor in Micevic’s acquittal will forever remain an unknown. In 2001, researcher Shelley Saltzman interviewed a number of jurors who had participated in criminal trials. While jurors reported to her that there were certain lawyers that they either would or would not want to represent them if they were in court, she concluded that no ‘juror ever claimed that the barrister’s personalities were a deciding factor in their deliberations. The evidence was strong enough to support the verdict and the barrister’s quirks, foibles and/or skills were merely fodder for jury gossip or appreciation’.74 Despite being difficult to quantify, there is no doubt that having a clever, articulate barrister speak on your behalf gives the defendant an edge, and the trial of Zdravko Micevic exemplified this. Aside from legal arguments, barristers win juries over in subtle ways. A parallel can be drawn between the scene-setting a barrister must do and the way a script-writer works. It is crucial for a script-writer to set the scene before launching into the narrative. The opening scene leads the audience into the movie in the exact direction that the writer wants them to go, making the audience expect and believe the events that follow. A romantic comedy will begin with fast, cheery music playing as a well-dressed woman in her late twenties walks down a busy street carrying a

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cup of take-away coffee. This sets the scene for a happy encounter, usually with a prospective boyfriend or husband. Some films manage to create the right atmosphere but some fail and as a result are labelled implausible and panned by the critics. A similar thing happens in court. The jury is the audience, the prosecution and defence lawyers are the directors. But this is modern theatre requiring audience participation. After the directors offer their alternative scenes, the audience selects the one they prefer. The barristers set the scene for the atmosphere they wish to convey and they too hope their audience (the jury) will be convinced. If they fail, instead of an unfavourable review and poor box office sales, the jury will dismiss their argument and find in favour of the other side. The barristers from both the defence and the prosecution will try to ‘condition’ the jury. Anyone who has ever used a real estate agent to sell a house will be familiar with being conditioned. Before obtaining a contract with you, the agent will gush that your palace is without doubt the grandest they have ever seen, the turrets the shiniest and the dragon in the dungeon the most ferocious. They will certainly fetch a princely sum for your realty. But once you have signed on the dotted line and they have secured your contract, the agent will suddenly notice that your moat is full of E. coli bacteria, your drawbridge a liability suit waiting to happen and the palace’s exterior is pock-marked with jabs from a knight’s lance. This is conditioning and is about trying to subtly shift perspectives. It is something that barristers, who are trying to sell a point of view as real estate agents try to sell land, do throughout a court case. A clear example of this is the way that Terry Forrest and Ray Elston both dealt with the fact that Micevic enjoyed boxing. Both Ray Elston and Terry Forrest opened with the fact that Micevic had been a boxer in his youth. Boxing was Micevic’s childhood hobby, the way cricket was David Hookes’s. As a boy Micevic was regarded as talented at his sport: he won an Australian Junior

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Title, a silver medal in an amateur boxing league and had been runner-up on other occasions. His prowess was once a source of great pride for Micevic and his friends have said his achievements in the ring earned him the respect of his peers. His talent fuelled his dreams, and he once harboured ambitions of boxing at the Olympic Games. But in this crucial instance, this court case where his liberty was on the line, his once-innocent hobby of boxing became the rope with which the prosecution tried to hang him. For Terry Forrest boxing became participation in a valuable social service that elevates disadvantaged youth and was practically akin to delivering meals-on-wheels. Forrest cross-examined Louie Korica, Micevic’s former boxing trainer. Although technically it is called cross-examination, Forrest used Korica as a wall on which to bounce his social theories on the virtues of boxing. He started with the gym in the suburb where Micevic trained. Forrest said the suburb was ‘a tough area with working-class kids from a migrant background. Kids that don’t necessarily have the chances in life that kids from other parts of town have. Gym was a useful social outlet that kept them off the street, taught them a form of discipline, good health and diet.’ ‘Yes, that is correct’, agreed Korica. Forrest continued: ‘All sorts of kids came through the gym, kids from troubled backgrounds, kids in trouble with the law, kids with no respect, kids with too much respect’. ‘Yes,’ said Korica. When Micevic went up to the witness box for the first time, Forrest anticipated the role that boxing would have in the prosecution case and opened with: ‘How old were you when you went to gym initially?’ ‘Eleven or twelve.’ ‘Did you go with other members of your family?’ ‘Yes, my cousin.’

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‘Did you speak any English?’ ‘No, I didn’t.’ ‘You were at primary school then?’ ‘Yes, that’s right.’ ‘As your boxing training and schooling was going on, your English was getting better?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Time moved on, you completed you schooling, you passed Year 12?’ ‘Yes.’ Forrest very cleverly linked the positive steps forward in Micevic’s life – learning a new language, studying, completing school, with the fact that he was boxing while doing these things. Whether or not they had any connection with each other is of course an unknown but Forrest seamlessly forged one. In his closing address Forrest said, ‘It’s not a crime to be a boxer. At eleven or twelve in a tough area Micevic was sent off to boxing and he liked it. That’s not a crime and it doesn’t make him guilty of the crime of manslaughter’. In direct opposition, Ray Elston tried to portray Micevic’s boxing as the training of a Ninja, painting Micevic as a young fighter learning how to become a savage adult warrior. Rather like the young boys in Sparta who were sent to live in training camps where they spent years preparing for a life dedicated to fighting, as if all the while he was training, winning boxing awards, improving his skills he was on a path destined to end with the taking of David Hookes’s life. Elston asked Micevic: ‘You studied karate for some months before you commenced your boxing course?’ ‘That’s right.’ ‘In the course of that did you learn how to deliver a punch?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Indeed, one of the objects is to punch and punch hard, isn’t it?’ ‘Sometimes, it’s mainly to punch fast.’

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‘Then you moved on to boxing?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And punching’s what boxing’s all about isn’t it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You were taught how to punch and punch effectively for what, a year or two?’ ‘A year before I had my first fight.’ ‘You won an Australian junior title?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You were a runner-up in a couple of titles as well?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘When you fight you wear head-guards don’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Why?’ ‘For protection.’ ‘A punch can do a lot of damage to an unprotected head can’t it?’ ‘Yes, it can.’ And later Elston asked, ‘You are trained to throw punches, you know how to throw a punch, don’t you?’ ‘Yes but this was a different situation. This wasn’t a boxing ring.’ ‘Why did you hit him in the head?’ ‘I didn’t have time to think. I just threw a punch back, I didn’t know where it was going to land.’ ‘You say it was just instinctive?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You have seen the damage that head punches can do?’ ‘Yes.’ In his closing address Elston attempted to turn Micevic into Rocky Balboa. He went through Micevic’s boxing history then told the jury: ‘The accused man knew exactly what he was doing with his hands when he got himself into a physical confrontation.’

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The process of trying to convince the jurors saw Micevic constantly morphing from a family-based, hard-working, decent young man into savage fighter. It was like the reverse of the fairytale where the unfortunate ugly duckling is transformed into a majestic swan. Here, the hard-done-by family boy turned into a Ninja warrior. The reality surely had to lie in the middle somewhere. Yes, Micevic may have been a decent young man, a young man who struggled with being a disadvantaged migrant but also too, he was someone with the capacity – in certain circumstances – to turn to his fists for help. This is something that perhaps can be said of all of us: it is surely part of the human condition that we are all capable of soaring to dizzying heights and also of plummeting to shameful lows. We have our strengths and our vulnerabilities, all the complex variables that make us who we are. I wondered about the impact that the trial would have on future participation in the sport of boxing. Would numbers dwindle once the word spread to future boxers that if they are ever involved in an incident involving physical violence, even one where the violence is used in self-defence, it has the potential to be used as part of the arsenal necessary to secure a conviction? It seemed that the media was also unable to forgive Micevic for his sport. Months after the conclusion of the trial, when Micevic was a (theoretically) free man, the Herald Sun ran a story proudly labelled in red ‘exclusive’. The story was splashed across the entire front page of the paper and extended to page two. The essence of this exclusive was that Micevic had on two occasions assisted the Commonwealth Games boxers with their training. The presentation of this extremely trivial snippet was astounding, even to me who had by now become fairly accustomed to schlock journalism. There was an enormous colour photograph of Micevic leaving the boxing ring. He was wearing his training clothes and carrying a pair of boxing gloves. Emblazoned in huge thick letters across the page, using a mixture of upper and lower case that reminded me of the crazy hate mail sent to Brian Rolfe,

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was the title of the article ‘Hookes bouncer in Games shock SECRET WEAPON’ and, on the second page, ‘Hookes bouncer in Games role shock’. Reading the article I was unsure of who it was that was shocked. Ben McEachran, one of the boxers Micevic had trained with was interviewed and said he ‘had sympathy for the turmoil in Micevic’s life’, adding, ‘He didn’t intend to take someone’s life, he seems like a really nice bloke. Working on pub doors is a horrible job and what happened that night could have happened to anyone in that situation’. Clearly Ben McEachran wasn’t shocked by the secret weapon. Just in case anyone needed a reminder of Micevic’s crime, under the huge headline was a photograph of David Hookes, framed in a yellow oval reminiscent of a halo, the massive words SECRET WEAPON hovering directly above his head. The article went on to say that Micevic was ‘trading blows with our medal heroes’ and had ‘sparred four furious two-minute rounds’. The madness continued the next day. The Herald Sun printed an article titled ‘Cricket furore’. The first line of the article claimed that ‘the cricket community is angry’ that Micevic helped train the boxers. I was surprised that the cricketers had expressed this view – the cricketers I had spoken to were deeply saddened but not bitter – until I read the last line of the article and realised that the ‘furore’ in the ‘cricket community’ was actually the remarks made by two spectators watching the Victorian Bushrangers play. ‘David from Essendon’ and ‘Andrew from Reservoir’ said they were ‘disgusted’ and that Micevic was ‘cashing in on his notoriety’. There were many, many more examples throughout the trial of the barristers using their skills to shift perspectives, to try to make the jury look at the same event or series of events in a different way. Both the prosecution and defence tried to avoid being Goliath and tried to seize the David mantle. Terry Forrest painted the cricketers as big, strong, middle-aged men, who certainly should have known better than to argue drunkenly with security

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guards at a pub. Ray Elston painted the cricketers as elderly, using words conveying a certain frailty, and therefore susceptible to the blows of the young, fit men security guards. Elston asked Micevic about his altercation with Hookes: ‘The man you’re involved with is quite obviously a person considerably older than yourself?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I suppose from your point of view he looked like a fairly elderly man. He was bald?’ ‘Yes, he was bald.’ ‘You didn’t know who he was?’ ‘No.’ ‘You had no idea of his age?’ ‘I would have said middle-aged.’ ‘You knew he was affected by alcohol?’ ‘Yes, that’s why he was really aggressive I suppose.’ ‘Was it not dangerous to get involved with a physical confrontation with a man who is a lot older than you and affected by alcohol?’ ‘He didn’t seem to want to leave, he wanted to keep going.’ Compare this with Forrest who worked hard to create the impression that the cricketers were a team of hulking giants uniting against the puny security guards. He asked fast bowler Mick Lewis: ‘You sought to intervene by imposing yourself on a smallish security member. He’s five foot seven, you’re a pretty big guy, six foot?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Weigh 90 kilos?’ ‘85.’ ‘Big enough. Did you knock him over?’ ‘No, he was fairly stocky.’ To witness Niumata, Forrest said, the ‘cricketers were big fellows, weren’t they, tall and athletic?’ Forrest asked cricketer Darren Lehmann about the physical strength of David Hookes.

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He referred to Hookes’s very strong forearms and arms, saying to Lehmann that Hookes ‘played with a heavy bat – it is very hard to play square of the wicket shots with a three-pound bat unless you have terribly strong forearms’. ‘Yes’, agreed Lehmann. In our society, as a general rule, many men aspire to be the strong, brawny one in the pack. In the trial of Zdravko Micevic this was yet another reversal of the norm: the men were trying to outdo each other to be the weakling, the feeble scrawny bloke with sand kicked in his face on the beach.

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THE BEACONSFIELD HOTEL

‘As I understand it the hotel is now closed.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS,


ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

The Beaconsfield Hotel faces the beach in an expensive, gentrified Melbourne suburb. Each morning people jog, walk, bike ride and rollerblade along the path opposite the pub. Above them seagulls swoop and squawk. The cold air has the distinctive beach smell of salt and seaweed. The building itself is unexceptional: large and grey with arched windows built on all sides to maximise the view of the sea. It is 125 years old, has an Italianate façade and heritage-listing status. There are two square towers on its otherwise flat roof. After the death of David Hookes the windows were repeatedly smashed, the staff received death threats and the business was boycotted and forced to close. It would always be the place where David Hookes had had his last drink before his death. The hotel is now boarded up and plans are underway to give it a fresh start and turn it into a five-storey apartment block, containing fifteen individual apartments. This has shades of the empty Micevic family home, standing charred and vacant with a big ‘For Sale’ sign in the front yard. The death of David Hookes has summoned

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ghosts to hover around these sites: there is a sense of a curse lingering with these buildings being emptied not by choice but through having their inhabitants driven out by the tainted air. Two years after Hookes’s death I drove to the Beaconsfield Hotel. It had stood untouched, disused and desolate since its closure shortly after the incident. A small wire fence has been erected around the hotel. I climbed over the fence and peered through one of the windows. Thick dust covered the counters and the carpet. Glittery tinsel dangled down from the ceiling, a remnant of happier times. Empty beer and wine glasses were stacked across the counter, never again to be filled, clinked and drunk from. The scene was grim and depressing. I climbed back to the footpath and looked at the outside of the building. Most of the windows were smashed and it was covered with graffiti dedicated to Hookes. ‘R.I.P.’ and ‘R.I.P. Hookesy’ were sprayed in yellow paint all along the front and sides of the hotel. ‘R.I.P. Hookesy’ with a heart underneath it was scrawled near the doorway. I walked around the corner and down the decrepit laneway that runs along the side of the hotel. There, at eye-level, was a magnificent sight. Someone had graffitied six bright green images of Hookes on the hotel’s side wall. The images were small, each about three inches high, and were stencilled silhouettes of Hookes standing in front of the wicket, bat raised across one shoulder, poised for his famous hook shot. The fluorescent green paint glowed on the grey wall. Such a simple smudge so clearly captured the man. As I walked back to the front of the hotel I noticed two more of these little green silhouettes, down low near the hotel’s entrance. Next door to the hotel was an old, run-down milk bar. I stepped inside to buy a sandwich and was greeted by a tiredlooking husband and wife. ‘How’s business going?’ I asked them. ‘Bad, times are so tough’, the husband replied. ‘Since the pub next door closed it has been a disaster for us. We used to get all

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the pub customers coming in here. Now it’s so quiet, just so quiet.’ He looked despairing as he buttered my bread. ‘You Greek?’ his wife asked me. ‘No.’ ‘Never mind, I’ll talk to you anyway.’ We laughed and the mood lifted. She said, ‘We’ve had the milk bar for twenty-five years. It’s never been so bad, since the pub closed. Sometimes I don’t know how we’ll go on.’ These were hard-working people who were now, since Hookes’s death, working even harder but for fewer rewards. ‘You don’t need a bag do you?’ asked the husband, handing me my sandwich. ‘No thanks.’ ‘Good, that’s one more we save.’ The Beaconsfield Hotel was on the corner of Cowderoy Street, which was lined with beautiful, well-maintained houses. There was a small park in Cowderoy Street not far from the pub. The park was charming, with old-fashioned play equipment, large shady trees and a tiny hill which often had children rolling down it. Overlooking the park was a café with decking extending to the periphery of the play equipment, good coffee and gourmet food. The residents of this area were obviously comfortable, and middle class. With that comes a degree of empowerment, the confidence to speak up and to use the system when annoyed. The residents had been annoyed that patrons leaving the Beaconsfield Hotel at night were noisy and boorishly behaved. They were yelling and waking them up, vomiting and urinating on their front lawns. There had been community action to obtain a little peace and quiet that had ended in a mediation. I could easily imagine the well-heeled residents in their smart suits, their expert lawyer briefed, demanding silence from a 125-year-old pub that had been serving beers many years before these residents moved in, polished the floorboards and installed stainless-steel appliances. A ruling was made that the hotel security staff would have to patrol

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Cowderoy Street to ensure that patrons leaving the hotel allowed the potentially litigious residents to sleep. This ruling set the backdrop for the tragedy, its tawdry ugliness incongruous with its comfortable and genteel locale. Journalist Miranda Devine wrote about this ruling: It’s not fair for young men like Micevic to make up for society’s disorder and structural defects. We are increasingly demanding the impossible from [bouncers] … We call on their services almost casually, with inevitable tragic consequences, not least for them. Bouncers and security guards have become the unofficial new police force, called on to do the dirty work everyone else offloads … To keep their licences hotel owners are forced to hire ‘muscle’ to force reluctant drunks not just out the door but out of the neighbourhood … In the case of the Beaconsfield Hotel management had agreed [at the Administrative Appeals Tribunal] before Hookes’s death to provide security staff to patrol the nearby streets for thirty minutes and ensure patrons left quietly. It was part of Micevic’s job to follow Hookes’s group down the street. It was a recipe for disaster and Micevic was the meat in the sandwich.75

Terry Forrest referred to the Administrative Appeals Tribunal ruling in the trial, noting that ‘If Micevic hadn’t followed them down Cowderoy Street the agreement would be breached and he’d lose his job.’ This view was echoed by Alan Latu who was the director of one of Melbourne’s largest security firms, SPL security. Mr Latu said that in many ways the job of being a bouncer was very similar to that of a police officer, but ‘look at all the training and support that police offers receive in comparison. All bouncers officially have to do is a two-week course and be registered with the Private Agents Registry’. The other staff working at the Beaconsfield Hotel confirmed what a difficult and dangerous job being a pub security guard

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was, and what a tremendous toll the physical and verbal aggression that they faced every night took on them. ‘Jimmy’ Demetris Demetriou was a truck driver who was working as a security guard at the Beaconsfield Hotel the night David Hookes died. ‘David Hookes was threatening. I told the group to keep the noise down and he put his face into mine, saying “You’re fucked, watch it”, like face to face. I got pushed in the back and security came to my aid. You can feel the tension like it was there. I got scared. I’m not saying I never got scared because I got scared. The night was extremely stressful and frightening. After that night I resigned and I don’t want to go back to it. It scares me.’ He also said that ‘David Hookes, with all due respect, was doing most of the yelling, saying, “This place will be fucked, watch what I do to it tomorrow”. A lot of other people were carrying on in the group but he was the main aggressive person there.’ Lucas Caciolo was working as a busboy at the Beaconsfield, collecting glasses, taking out rubbish bins, emptying ashtrays and cleaning. He was eighteen years old at the time. He saw Hookes as the ‘leader of the pack’ in terms of his aggressive behaviour, and the swearing. ‘Hookes is refusing to leave and leading the pushing and shoving. We security staff were completely outnumbered. The cricketers had a good deal of big strong fellows.’

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ROBERT CASSELL

‘What did you see happen?’ ‘I saw the bouncer punch Hookesy.’ RAY ELSTON OF

TO

ROBERT CASSELL,

DAY FOUR OF THE TRIAL

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

The term ‘strapping young lad’ must have been coined with cricketer Robbie Cassell in mind. He is tall, long-limbed, broad shouldered and exudes sportiness. A friend of mine went to the same high school as Cassell, and arranged for me to interview him. He cautioned me: ‘Robbie’s just a young bloke, be careful how you go’. He was referring to the fact that 20-year-old Cassell came much too close to death for someone his age: he cradled his coach’s bleeding head in his arms as Hookes lay on the ground dying. Cassell and I met at a café in a busy suburban strip. When I arrived he was already there, reading the sports section of the newspaper, his lanky limbs spilling uncomfortably from the cramped table and chairs that were clearly designed with someone less robust in mind. He was very close to his family, who had been a much-needed support to him since Hookes’s death. He lived with his parents in the family home he grew up in and was particularly close to his

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two older brothers, who had just moved out of the family home and lived together. When the Victorian cricket team was flown to Adelaide for David Hookes’s funeral, Cassell’s parents and brothers came with him for support. His mother sat through the court case with him. They were a very united family and, hearing Cassell talk about them, it was clear why Cassell was such a centred, stable and likeable person. Conscious of needing to tread lightly, I began by asking Robbie about his background in cricket. ‘Every night after school I’d play cricket in the park with my brothers and all the other kids in the neighbourhood till it got dark. There was a park in my street and we’d all meet there and play for hours and hours, till it got too dark to see the ball. That started when I was about six years old and I did it every single day all through primary school. We all loved it, it was so much fun. Then I started playing club cricket when I was about eight, and everything took off from there.’ Since Hookes’s death Cassell had been playing his guitar. He began playing a few days after the incident and played every day. Favourites were Jack Johnson and Ben Harper. ‘Playing takes my mind away. I sit in the sunshine in the backyard. Sometimes I’ll stop playing and think about Hookesy, I’ll just let my mind wander a bit and then come back to the music. It’s somehow helped me cope a bit. I might buy myself an electric guitar one day. ‘When it first happened I was stunned. I mean he was just there on the ground and I was holding his head. I couldn’t talk to anyone, I just went into my shell. Then I saw a counsellor who made me talk about it for the first time. I sat around the table with mum, dad, my brothers and the counsellor and just spilled it all out. I was the youngest guy in the pub that night and seeing what I saw made me grow up fast. Before that night everything in my life revolved around cricket. Losing Hookesy and the way it all happened made me broaden my focus. Now I’m studying a

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Bachelor of Business on the Internet and I’ve also taken up a personal trainer course. Before his death I thought cricket was everything; now I know it’s not, I’ve lost a bit of my passion. ‘I think I’ve always been mature for my age but what I went through,’ he shook his head and exhaled, ‘it was a wake-up call, it just changed everything for me’. ‘I was dreading the court case, I was really a nervous wreck before it. It was the most nervous I’ve ever been in my life talking in court, much more than before a big cricket game. My counsellor told me “just tell the truth” so whenever I was panicking I just thought of that. So that’s what I did, I just told the truth. I was in the stand for about an hour, I was sweating, the pressure was really getting to me. When I first heard on the news the bouncer got off, I kept thinking, “Were there any loopholes in what I said?” Even now, every now and then I’ll wonder if it’s something I said that helped get the bouncer off. I’ll have to live with that if it was. When it first happened I had sleepless nights, just thinking about it all, but now I just focus on my good memories of Hookesy. After the court case I was so relieved it was over. A couple of days leading up to the case I couldn’t talk, I just went back into my shell. It also made me start thinking about the night again, reliving what had happened, having all these horrible images go through my mind, I’d see the ambulance coming and taking Hookesy away. I know the bouncer was a young kid as well. Sometimes I try to put myself in his shoes, I did that as a way of coping during the court case. ‘A few of us were really nervous about appearing in court, so Charlie Bezzina came to talk to us and said, “Would it make you feel better if I took you down to show you the court room?” We said yes, so Charlie drove us to court in the cop car. He showed us the room, the witness stand, the room we’d be waiting in. It was great, really helpful.’ Cassell wasn’t the only one who had been nervous. Christine Padfield was also anxious. Before the trial, she had said how she was ‘terrified, absolutely terrified of giving evidence in a court room’.76

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Cassell continued: ‘I’ve always been close with Mick Lewis and Greg Shipperd but now we’ve got a special relationship because of what we’ve been through. Also, I went in the car with Darren Berry that night: he and I have become even closer. I was so shocked when the verdict came out, I was sure he was going to jail. Even after this interview, it’ll be back in my mind, I’ll be thinking about it again. I must admit last night I didn’t sleep too well, because I knew I’d be talking about it with you. This will be with me for days. ‘Six months after the incident I played cricket again. I’d been dying to get back to the game to show myself that I could still play after his death. When I played that was the first time I’d felt happy again since Hookesy died. I usually think about him while I play. The first few times I played I wore the Organ Donation Foundation red wristband, so every time I glanced down at my wrist during play I was reminded of him. ‘The day after it happened we were called into Cricket Victoria, and it was all over the news. I told mum and dad what happened and I got dad to drive me in. They told me he’d died and I lost it. I burst into tears and walked out. The counsellor followed me out and sat me down and we had a great chat.’ Robbie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Should we stop here?’ I asked. ‘No, it’s good to talk about it but this is certainly bringing back the memories. ‘I thought the events of that night might have put me off pubs forever. Certainly for a while after the incident I avoided pubs, just out of instinct. Even now I feel edgy walking past bouncers but I try not to think about it. I went to the pub that night to have a beer, have fun and now my life’s changed forever. Hopefully the bouncer industry will change after this so it won’t happen again, maybe something good can come out of it.’ During the trial, when Cassell was in the witness stand, Ray Elston asked how much he had drunk that night.

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‘Ten pots and one stubby’, replied Cassell. ‘What did you see?’ asked Elston. ‘I saw an argument break out and a bouncer sort of tried to get Hookesy out the door.’ ‘Did you hear anything?’ ‘A fair bit of yelling.’ Elston asked Cassell what he saw when the group moved from the pub out on to the street. ‘I saw the bouncer punch Hookesy.’ ‘Where were Mr Hookes’s hands when he was struck?’ ‘They were down by his side.’ ‘Did you see Mr Hookes throw any blows at all?’ ‘No.’ ‘When Mr Hookes was punched, what was the effect on him that you saw?’ ‘He went quite stiff and just sort of fell backwards and hit his head on the ground … I went over to Hookesy and held his head.’ Next Cassell was cross-examined by Terry Forrest: ‘Ten pots and a stubby for a young fellow is going to have some effect, isn’t it Mr Cassell?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Is your social judgement sometimes affected when you drink?’ ‘Sometimes.’ ‘Do you find when you drink, your capacity to recall things accurately is sometimes affected?’ ‘Depends how much.’ ‘Mr Hookes was arguing with this man before he punched him, wasn’t he?’ ‘He was arguing with the bouncer.’ ‘Mr Hookes was very angry indeed wasn’t he?’ ‘He was angry, yes.’ ‘He was using every swear word in the book?’ ‘It wasn’t every swear word in the book, it was quite a few of them I suppose.’

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‘There was I suggest a wrestle or a struggle that broke out between the security guard in the white shirt and Mr Hookes which resulted in Mr Hookes punching him twice in the stomach?’ ‘No, I didn’t see that.’ ‘It was immediately thereafter, within a split second of Mr Hookes punching him twice in the stomach, that Micevic threw a left hook?’ ‘I didn’t see that at all.’ ‘You saw the left hook being thrown?’ ‘Yes, I did.’ ‘Mr Hookes had his arms not down, I suggest, but up on the security person, hanging on to his shirt, delivering lefts and rights.’ ‘No, not the case.’ ‘The same as it’s not the case that any cricketers threw punches?’ ‘I didn’t see any punches thrown.’ ‘I have nothing further, Your Honour.’

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SIGHT AND SOUND

‘It’s more an audio memory rather than a visual memory, of feet scraping on the ground, and then a sound like a fist hitting flesh and then the sound of a breaking bone. It was very loud.’ JONATHON PORTER,

DAY TWO OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

When the lights went on in the Beaconsfield Hotel, the group moved outside into the night and a cloud of darkness descended literally and metaphorically. The fight was just before midnight and the case was characterised by sounds and a lack of vision. Sight became secondary to hearing, like the world experienced by a blind person. Everyone from the neighbours, the security guards and the cricket group referred to the screams, the yelling, the swearing and the shouts in the build up to the actual physical altercation. Whilst there were many contested versions of what was seen, the audio memories are clear and not in dispute. Cricketer Mick Lewis saw little but heard ‘screaming, shouting, indecent language and a shout to call an ambulance’. Witness Brian Johnston, who is 30 per cent deaf, heard ‘a lot of loud voices and both parties yelling’.

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Although there was no agreement on what was seen, distinct in almost everyone’s minds was the loud and grisly sound of David Hookes’s head hitting the ground. Christine Padfield heard ‘a loud thud,’ Robbie Cassell heard ‘a loud, distinct cracking sort of noise’. Witness Anthony Perks stood on his balcony, all lights off in his apartment, a voyeur in the dark watching and listening. He said, ‘When he hit the ground it was a very horrible sound. The sound that I heard when his head hit the ground left no doubt in my mind that this person was going to die’. As if in sympathy with the prevailing dimness, on day six of the trial the lights in the court broke and the court room sank into partial darkness. Justice Cummins said to the jury, ‘I’m sorry you’ve been held up but … half the lights in the court left us … and apparently we can’t get them fixed until the morning … [I]f you can manage properly fulfilling your function in this semi-light we’ll continue’. He later enquired of the jury, ‘Can you see the maps?’ One can imagine the jurors squinting in the gloom, the maps held up close to their faces.

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SUE-ANNE HUNTER

‘Towards the end of the evening David Hookes and Sue-Anne Hunter end up chatting. Sue-Anne Hunter has had a minor blue with Mick Lewis who goes back to his car. Sue-Anne’s a bit tired and a bit emotional and she’s been drinking.’ RAY ELSTON,

DAY TEN OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Inside the pub is a small, enclosed glass room. The glass room contained a cigarette machine, some chairs and a table. If the windows were the eyes of the pub, looking out on to the sea, this little room was its heart, pumping out the charged emotions and fraught energy that ultimately led to a death. For most of the night David Hookes and a woman called Sue-Anne Hunter were engrossed in an emotional conversation. The conversation ended when security guard Zdravko Micevic entered the room, coming to tell them that the pub was closing. Sue-Anne Hunter was a crucial but dismal presence in the trial. Every drama has its lighter moments: King Lear had the Fool; in Micevic’s trial, they were provided by Sue-Anne Hunter. The trial was peppered with mention of her missing glasses, her lost handbag, her teary, drunken state. Several witnesses described seeing Hunter looking for her glasses and bag. Without her

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glasses, an image emerged of her stumbling around unable to see properly. Her purse was gone, so she was penniless. Who knew what else was in her bag, possibly her phone and keys as well. At one stage Ray Elston asked, and I still struggle to see the purpose of this question, ‘Did you get your glasses back?’ ‘No,’ replied Sue-Anne Hunter glumly. The hapless glasses are still probably lying, forever abandoned, in a dusty corner of the now defunct pub, or bent under a tree, trodden on and broken. The trial transcripts paint the atmosphere in the pub so clearly. There was lots of drinking, a band playing loud music, a room for smoking, people dancing, a television on in the background and relationship dramas. Aside from the celebrity presence it could have been any drunken night in any pub in Australia. Then the ugliness descended and the giddy tipsiness transformed into its evil twin, the alcohol on the breath, the slurred speech, the swaying, staggering walk and the anger. Before the night degenerated, Hunter was a picture of carefree, gay abandon, dancing to the pub band. Then the downhill slide began. She had a fight with Mick Lewis, she was in a distressed, tearful state and she was drunk. These three facts were discussed in protracted, painful detail. Lewis had wanted to go home but Hunter had wanted to stay. Lewis stormed out of the pub and waited for Hunter in the car, sending her text messages. All of this led to her being in the little glass room with David Hookes, weeping, until closing time, when Micevic entered the room. The reason her role was so central was that what took place in the little glass room was the hotly contested catalyst that began the spiralling descent resulting in David Hookes’s death. Hunter was questioned by the prosecution and she described Micevic’s approach: ‘He said, “Last drinks”, and David said something along the lines of “We’re going to go”. Then he said, “Tell the bitch to skol her drinks” and David said, “You shouldn’t be asking such a young girl to skol her drinks”.’ ‘What happened then?’

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‘I don’t know.’ ‘Do you recall how David Hookes left the hotel?’ ‘No.’ ‘When you were outside did anything happen that caught your attention, did you hear anything, did you see anything?’ ‘I heard some screaming up the side street, that’s when I went around there and David was lying on the ground.’ ‘Did you stay there till the ambulance arrived?’ ‘I stayed till the ambulance arrived.’ ‘After that did you follow on to the Alfred Hospital?’ ‘That’s correct.’ Next Terry Forrest began a tally of how much alcohol Hunter had consumed. There had been free alcohol at a lunch Hunter had attended at the cricket. Forrest asked: ‘What time did the lunch start?’ ‘One o’clock.’ ‘Alcohol was obviously freely available?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘You were drinking chardonnay?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘I think you estimated that you may have had five or six chardonnays at lunch?’ ‘I think it was around four.’ ‘What is your maximum estimate?’ ‘Six.’ ‘So four as a minimum, six as a maximum?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘After lunch you went to the Cricket Victoria offices. You continued to drink there?’ ‘That’s correct. I had two drinks there.’ ‘I think at the committal you said two or three.’ ‘If that’s what I said, then I accept that.’ ‘Minimum two, maximum three?’ ‘Correct.’

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‘We now have in your evidence an estimate of a minimum before you go to the hotel of six glasses of chardonnay and a maximum of nine glasses of chardonnay.’ ‘Correct.’ ‘The glasses of chardonnay that you were drinking were not modest glasses, they were good-sized glasses?’ ‘That’s correct.’ ‘And one more at the hotel that you didn’t finish?’ ‘Correct.’ Using the familiar legal strategy of asking questions to which he of course knew the answers, Forrest queried: ‘And you were affected by alcohol?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You were intoxicated?’ ‘Correct.’ The other fight of the evening was discussed. It was a part of the long chain of causation that led to the death of David Hookes. ‘Did you have an argument with Mick Lewis that evening?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What was it about?’ ‘He wanted to leave.’ ‘And you wanted to stay?’ ‘That’s correct.’ ‘Did you become emotional?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Did you scream at him?’ ‘I don’t recall screaming at him.’ ‘How was it that you came to be in the glass area with David Hookes?’ ‘Because he saw that I was emotional.’ At the time Hunter could not possibly have imagined that her bad night out on the town would be scrutinised so publicly. It was the sort of night that so many of us have experienced and woken up from the next morning with little more than a foggy head, a

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desire for greasy food and an unpleasant but distant memory. This could have been said by everyone that night. The bar staff at the hotel, wiping the counters the way they had a thousand times before, the assistant manager Damien Argenti taking out the rubbish bins, the most prosaic of acts, something he’d done so many times. ‘So Mr Hookes and you went into the glass alcove area?’ ‘That’s correct.’ ‘So what was Mr Hookes talking to you about?’ ‘I can’t recall.’ ‘So some parts of the evening you have a specific, precise recollection and other parts of the evening you have none whatsoever?’ ‘That’s correct.’ ‘You don’t recall anything Mr Hookes says to you and you don’t recall anything you say to him?’ ‘That’s correct.’ ‘You do have a specific recollection of the security person coming in and saying “Finish up, last drinks”?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘And then the ultimate conversation “Skol bitch”?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You don’t recall what preceded it?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘You don’t recall what followed it?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘You don’t recall how you got out on the street?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘You don’t recall whether you launched yourself on to a security officer?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘You don’t recall how your glasses got broken, how you lost your bag?’ ‘Correct.’

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‘Do you recall walking out the front door, past the front windows of the hotel?’ ‘No.’ ‘Do you recall where Mick Lewis was?’ ‘No.’ ‘Do you recall screaming and shouting at the front of the hotel? ‘No.’ ‘Do you recall any physical altercation?’ ‘No.’ ‘Your next recollection is that of David Hookes lying on the ground?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘From the time that you are in the bar area of the hotel until the time that you see Mr Hookes lying on the roadway you have a complete state of amnesia?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘Alcohol was a factor in your presentation that evening wasn’t it?’ ‘That’s correct.’ ‘But your recollections of what you say were offensive about the security men are quite specific?’ ‘That’s correct.’ ‘Is it the case that you do not want to tell us what happened in Cowderoy Street?’ ‘That’s not correct.’ ‘I have no further questions, Your Honour.’

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TERRY CRANAGE

‘Had Micevic always been professional, courteous in his dealings with patrons?’ ‘Yes.’ DAMIEN SHEALES TRIAL OF

TO

DAMIEN ARGENTI,

DAY FIVE OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

I had rung Terry Cranage, and left a message suggesting a meeting time. He rang back and said, ‘Hello, Terry Cranage here’ and after a short pause, ‘David Hookes’s brother’. Being ‘David Hookes’s brother’ was entrenched in his identity. That had probably been the way he introduced himself to people for over twenty years, the celebrity’s sibling, a satellite attached to a star. I wondered how much longer being David Hookes’s brother would be the way he described himself. We tried to arrange a place to meet. As Cranage lived in Queensland and I lived in Melbourne, I asked if he had any plans to come down over the next few months. His reply was immediate: ‘No, I won’t be coming to Melbourne for a long time. Too many bad memories. And I never want to set foot in a court room again either’. I flew to Brisbane to meet Cranage who was waiting for me at the Brisbane airport where we remained, talking and drinking weak tea and bad coffee, until my flight home several hours later.

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Cranage was tall, with grey hair, sunspots and an unusual style that I can only describe as restrained yet open. He was very much an old-school man with an undercurrent of intensity that I came to believe he shared with his late brother. He was sixty-two years old and had worked in Foreign Affairs for most of his career. This included ten overseas postings and some time as a trade commissioner. Now he worked with his wife in her real estate business. He had been married since 1966 and had a son, a daughter and four grandchildren. Exposing one’s vulnerability does not come easily to an olderstyle Australian man, and Cranage’s lack of comfort was there for most of our meeting. But his stoic nature enabled him to overcome his discomfort and to talk to me about what he had been through. ‘About 2 a.m. Darren Lehmann rang me up, sounding very upset. “Terry,” he said, “something terrible’s happened. David’s hurt. It’s serious and the doctors think he’s brain dead”. It was all like a bad dream and I still think of him every day.’ ‘Tell me about your brother’, I said. Cranage’s words flowed thick and fast ‘People gravitated towards him. He was generous, quick-witted, mischievous, jokey. He’d always make me laugh. He had a trick he’d use when he had trouble finding a parking spot. He’d bring a spare set of keys in his pocket and then deliberately lock the set that he was using in the car. He’d write a note and stick it on the windscreen saying, “Dear parking inspector, I’ve locked my keys in my car and I’ve gone home to get a spare set”. That way he’d never get a ticket.’ We both laughed aloud and Terry’s face transformed, his discomfort momentarily disappeared and was replaced by an appealing warmth. He continued: ‘David did everything at a hundred miles an hour, he never slowed down. He was totally dedicated to cricket. For Foxtel he’d go to Sydney once a week. He also had 3AW and he was a cricket coach. He was under a lot of pressure and it was very hard. He had an incredible memory but his sporting memory was really unbelievable.’

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‘Years ago he shared a car hire business with a guy called Roger Sweet. They had a falling out over business and didn’t speak for ten years. I get cars from Roger and I kept saying to him, “I’ll get you two together again”. I did manage to achieve that, which I’m so happy about. We all had a drink together six months before his death, which was happy but emotional. ‘I sat through every minute of the trial and the committal. I really liked the bouncer’s lawyer, Terry Forrest. I was going to have a beer with Forrest. I said to Forrest, “If I was ever charged with anything I’d want you defending me”. I still want to have a catch-up with him. After the trial he said to me, “I’m sorry but that’s how it goes”. Terry Forrest seemed both worldly and down to earth, I liked the way there were lots of references to sport and he was able to speak the language of the cricketers. People might think why do you want a drink with him when he got the guy that killed your brother off, but I don’t see it that way. I also thought the judge was absolutely wonderful.’ It amazed me that Terry Cranage was able to speak with such praise about the justice system and those who worked in it despite the outcome of the case, in the face of his tragedy and despair. ‘I surprised myself by not being bitter’, Cranage continued. ‘I didn’t care if the bouncer got convicted – it wouldn’t bring David back. I’ve got no grudges. It was something that just happened. That kid’s life’s ruined forever. His family was right next to us. Mr Micevic shook my hand and Micevic’s brother told me that they were a religious family, and how terrible they felt. After the case Micevic touched my shoulder and said “Sorry”. I was a bit teary and didn’t say anything to him. I also had to keep myself together to face the press. The waiting for the jury was the really hard part, but when the verdict came I felt I could move on. I was surprised with the way the decision went, but that’s the way our democracy works. ‘I’ve never feared public speaking, but announcing his death in the hospital was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Now I’m

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the last one left in the family. My parents have gone and my little brother’s gone. ‘A lot of people turned against me after I appeared in the Australian Story, a lot of people have gone quiet in terms of friendship. After the Australian Story one journalist wrote an article that was very critical of me. Someone I know found it and sent it to me anonymously with the criticisms highlighted.’ I had watched the Australian Story that Terry was referring to. The comments he made that had caused this rift were about Hookes’s girlfriend Christine Padfield. Cranage had said: ‘To be honest I felt very, very sorry for her, and she’s been left without David now and not being able to say a proper farewell to him at all … She must have been absolutely distraught. In some ways history has been repeated. David left his first wife Roxanne, who was a childhood sweetheart, 22 years ago for Robyn. Roxanne has never got over that. She, in fact, was unable to bring herself to the funeral because she was so upset. I’m now seeing Christine as the third woman to love and lose David’.77 I thought afterwards that Terry Cranage and David Hookes shared some defining characteristics. The quality of speaking their mind irrespective of the consequences. The absence of that cautionary filter that so many of us use on our words that might make them safer, less likely to offend, but at the price of making them bland. Neither Cranage nor Hookes had a bland bone in their bodies: it was part bravery, part recklessness, part pure honesty. The sorts of people who are both adored and resented. ‘I’m amazed at my strength now compared to before the trial. I was so angry he’d been taken away. I was just so angry, but not with the bouncer, it was just a general sort of feeling. He was my baby brother, he didn’t deserve to go before me.’

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CHRISTINE PADFIELD

‘David was being aggressive, he was resisting efforts to get in the car, he was wanting to go on with the job with the bouncers.’ ‘No, he wasn’t.’ TERRY FORREST TO CHRISTINE PADFIELD, TRIAL OF ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

DAY FOUR OF THE

Christine Padfield was David Hookes’s girlfriend, and worked as a marketing co-ordinator at Cricket Victoria. The night of Hookes’s death Padfield was the sober one of the group. She was driving and had one glass of champagne, then sipped on water the rest of the night. She is from a small country town in rural Victoria. Her mother Barbara Padfield, who was interviewed on Australian Story, had a heavy Australian accent and I imagined her as being from the same mould as David Hookes’s mother, Pat Hookes. Padfield’s mother said of her daughter, ‘She was just devastated, and you just felt helpless, couldn’t do anything. We never gave her the papers, she never watched the news. It was just too devastating for her’. Later Barbara Padfield said, ‘It changed all of our lives. What Christine went through I just didn’t think she’d ever get out of it.’78 In court Padfield said to Ray Elston that the mood in the pub was initially happy until, without any warning, Micevic grabbed

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Hookes in a headlock. Elston asked her: ‘Are you able to recall the demeanour of the person in the white top?’ ‘The security guard in the white T-shirt had become very aggressive. I stood between David and the security guard and I asked him to leave David alone. He said, “He’s a fucking smart arse” and I said, “No, you are”, then he became very aggressive again.’ Next Terry Forrest questioned Padfield: ‘All this as I understand what you say, just sprang from nothing, a perfectly pleasant social evening? From nowhere David was placed in a headlock?’ ‘Yes’, said Padfield. ‘I suggest to you that in fact outside the hotel the aggression was coming from the cricketing group and not the security staff.’ ‘I disagree with that.’ ‘Mr Hookes was using expressions like “Your heads will fucking roll, I’m going to close this place down, wait till you listen to the radio tomorrow”?’ ‘I didn’t hear David say any of that.’ ‘Now I understand you say that Mr Hookes was not in a headlock when he was ejected from the hotel, but at some stage subsequent to that out in the street he was placed in a headlock again by the man in the white T-shirt. Again, no rhyme or reason that you could see?’ ‘No’. ‘No precipitating act, just something that happened?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I suggest to you that the cricket group became aggressive.’ ‘I didn’t see anything at that stage. I ran up the street to grab my car and try to get David in. There was a lot going on, I was very scared.’ ‘David, I suggest, was being aggressive. He was resisting efforts to get in the car.’ ‘No, he wasn’t.’ Padfield described watching Micevic and Hookes struggle, hearing a thud, then seeing Hookes sprawled on the ground.

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Australian Story showed Padfield in a small and bare bedroom in her mother’s home. Padfield and her mother both pulled a suitcase from the top of a wardrobe and began packing together. They loaded the suitcase into Padfield’s car, embraced each other and Padfield drove away. The camera followed her down a long stretch of dirt road, heading away from her mother’s remote rural hideaway and back to the fast and dangerous city.

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GREG SHIPPERD

‘Did you agree to meet with Mr Hookes and other players at the Beaconsfield Hotel around nine o’clock that night?’ ‘That’s right.’ RAY ELSTON

TO

GREG SHIPPERD,

DAY FOUR OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Since David Hookes’s death Greg Shipperd has been the coach of the Victorian Bushrangers: he had previously been assistant coach. Shipperd was known for his unassuming, low-key style. Cricket statistics list his achievements as having scored the slowest century by an Australian, having four of the five slowest Australian 150s and having scored the slowest double-century in Australian first-class cricket. However, as a coach he is dynamite: not only have the Bushrangers played extremely well under Shipperd’s tutelage, but the players have spoken about his compassionate support of them after the death of Hookes. Cricketer Mick Lewis said, ‘He rang each of us in the day or so following Hookesy’s passing and said, “I’m here if you ever need to talk”. It meant a lot to us. Throughout the whole thing he has been like our rock’. Similarly former cricketer Dene Hills said, ‘We just loved him and we still do. He is not just a coach but a

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mate and was like a father to me’.79 The night of Hookes’s death Shipperd had arrived at the pub in a taxi, together with Shaun Graf. Early on in his questioning, Terry Forrest established that Shipperd had drunk four beers at the pub that night, and three beers at the MCG after the match. Defence barrister Damien Sheales asked Shipperd if he had heard the yelling, the hostile shouts, the aggression that characterised the end of the night. ‘No,’ Shipperd answered, ‘I was engrossed in conversation. I didn’t see or hear anything’. Sheales, drippingly sardonic, replied, ‘It must have been a riveting conversation’. Shipperd responded, ‘I usually pay attention to people that are speaking to me’. ‘Mr Shipperd, I put it to you that you are not telling the truth about any of this.’ ‘I am.’ ‘I put it to you that you were pushed out the door at the same time as Mr Hookes. I put it to you that that’s the truth … and your assertion to the contrary is a complete lie.’ ‘That’s not correct.’ ‘I put it to you that the reason you are lying is because you know that the truth does you and your group no credit at all.’ ‘That’s not true.’ ‘No further questions, Your Honour.’

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TANIA PLUMPTON

‘The security guy had David in a headlock and dragged him across to the bar.’ TANIA PLUMPTON,

DAY THREE OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

Tania Plumpton worked as a sales trainer. She had straight, shoulder-length blonde hair, a thick fringe and a no-nonsense, straight-talking style. She came across as not one to mince words and seemed to be the witness least intimidated by the barristers’ questioning. Her answers were brief. Plumpton was a close friend of Christine Padfield and the two women had driven to the pub together that night to meet the cricketers. She described the build up to the fight, saying ‘I was yelling, there was a lot of yelling, all of us were yelling’. She was questioned by Ray Elston who asked: ‘Did you see any physical contact between any of the security and any member of your group between the front door and the corner?’ ‘No, I didn’t.’ ‘Can you tell us what happened?’ ‘I just remember being a little bit down Cowderoy Street and there was some pushing and shoving going on between the security guys and David, and I remember being in the middle of the

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group with my hands on the security man’s chest, just pushing him saying “Leave us alone, we want to go home”.’ ‘The person you were pushing, what colour top did he have on?’ ‘White.’ ‘Did you hear anything said by security to Mr Hookes?’ ‘When I had my hands on the security guy’s chest he leant over me and spoke directly to David.’ ‘What did he say?’ ‘He said that David was a smart arse and that he was going to effing well kill him.’ ‘Was there any response from Mr Hookes to that?’ ‘He said something along the lines of “Oh, you’re a tough boy”.’ Plumpton described how the group moved down Cowderoy Street and the terrible tension built. ‘I remember Shaun saying to me “Get David and get out of here”. I looked at David and I said, “Come on David, get in the car”. He looked at me and said, “I’m coming, Tan”. I pushed the front seat forward to get in the back seat and I heard a loud bang and I remember Christine saying, “They’ve effing well hit him”. I went round the back of the car and David was lying on the ground.’ ‘Did you see any blows struck?’ ‘No, I did not.’ ‘When you saw Mr Hookes on the ground what did you do?’ ‘I thought David had been knocked unconscious so I knelt down beside him and I was just tapping him on the side of the face, just calling his name.’ Next Plumpton was questioned by defence barrister Damien Sheales. Their interaction was prickly and hostile, the combination of Sheales’s dogged style and Plumpton’s don’t-mess-with-me air. ‘How complete do you say your recollections are of events from being asked to finish your drinks until Mr Hookes is struck?’ ‘It’s like in snippets. I can’t remember absolutely everything.

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It’s almost like what I call a slide-show memory.’ ‘With significant gaps in between?’ ‘There are gaps, yes.’ ‘I suggest to you that you were removed from the fracas by a Pacific Islander who pinned your arms?’ ‘Absolutely not.’ ‘I suggest to you that many people became involved inside in trying to interfere with the security staff doing their job?’ ‘The reason we did that is that it was unnecessary force. He had him in a headlock and David was having trouble breathing.’ ‘And you were all shepherded out the door at the same time?’ ‘I’m not sure. I’m not sure who was where at the time, it was just a nightmare.’ ‘Who do you remember being there?’ ‘Shaun, David, myself and Sue-Anne.’ ‘So there’s only four of you?’ ‘I wasn’t taking a head count.’ ‘How long did you remain outside the hotel?’ ‘I don’t remember.’ ‘Did you hear anyone threatening to sue the hotel?’ ‘No.’ ‘Did you hear anyone threatening they’d have their jobs?’ ‘No.’ ‘Did you hear anyone threatening to make their heads spin by way of radio report?’ ‘No.’ Sheales then moved on to the prosecution’s main theme: ‘You’ve no doubt been to many hotels, public houses and the like in your life?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘How much do you say you had to drink this day?’ ‘I had one glass of wine earlier in the evening at Cricket Victoria and I had two glasses of wine at the Beaconsfield Hotel.’ ‘So in total three glasses of wine?’

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‘Correct.’ ‘Did you say to Australian Story that you had six or seven drinks?’ ‘I’m not sure.’ ‘Do you dispute you said that to the Australian Story?’ ‘I don’t remember what I said to the Australian Story.’ ‘Were you telling them the truth?’ ‘I’m not sure. If that’s what was said on the Australian Story, then I said it.’ Sheales then moved on to question Plumpton about what she had seen in front of the hotel. Plumpton insisted she remembered nothing. She said angrily to Sheales, ‘I don’t remember being out in front of the hotel. I’ve told you several times. Do you want me to make up a story? I don’t remember. I can’t invent stuff in my brain’. Dry and sardonic Sheales responded, ‘It’s interesting you say that’. He moved on: ‘Tell us how you broke your fingernails?’ ‘The bouncer ripped my hands off his chest.’ ‘These are real or false fingernails?’ ‘Real.’ ‘Were they long or short?’ ‘Reasonably long.’ ‘Did it rip the fingernail right off the finger?’ ‘Not the whole fingernail, just the top.’ ‘I understand what you say is at this time you had gone to push this security member away?’ ‘My hands were on his chest, David was behind me, and I was just pushing him backwards, saying, “Leave us alone, we want to go home”.’ ‘So you had your palms outstretched?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘In a defensive pose, trying to stop the person coming forwards?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You weren’t being aggressive, you had the open palms up?’

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‘Yes.’ ‘Flat on his chest, on his shirt?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And he knocked your hands aside?’ ‘He grabbed them and sort of gave me a bit of a fling to get me out of the way.’ ‘Grabbed you by your forearms?’ ‘No, by my hands.’ ‘So your fingernails, what, went into his hand?’ ‘I would assume so the way he grabbed me. But as he’s flung me he’s caught the sides of my nails and they ripped off.’ ‘This is not true Ms Plumpton.’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘This is not true Ms Plumpton.’ ‘Why would I be saying it if it wasn’t true?’ ‘Because you knew you had broken fingernails to explain. You were involved up to your eyeballs in the fracas outside.’ ‘No, I was not.’ Sheales then handed Plumpton a security tag, number fortythree, which was worn by Micevic on the night of Hookes’s death. ‘Evidence will be led’, continued Sheales, ‘that the security tag was pulled off, torn from the back of the neck of the defendant. I suggest that it was you who tore that from his neck and that is how you damaged your fingernails.’ ‘No, that’s not correct.’ ‘Evidence will also be led that the person trying to eject Mr Hookes was slapped about the face by one of the two women. Was that you?’ ‘No.’ Then Sheales moved to his explanation for Plumpton’s seeing the night rather differently from the defence team. ‘You assert to Australian Story you had at least twice as much [to drink] as you said here. Do you agree with that?’ ‘I don’t remember what I said on Australian Story. It was a

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long time after the episode and my memory obviously wasn’t very clear.’ ‘A happy coincidence for you. I suggest what you told this jury under oath is that you did not have enough alcohol to in any way affect your capacity to observe or react. The only difference between here and the Australian Story is your audience and you say different things depending on who your audience is?’ ‘No.’ ‘You are deliberately lying to write down how much you consumed during the course of the day.’ Under Sheales’s questioning Plumpton became like the housewife denying having a tipple despite the evidence of the empty gin bottle, the sway in her step and the slur in her voice. ‘I suggest to you that the security member never said the word “skol” and never said the word “bitch”.’ ‘I disagree with you.’ ‘I suggest to you that what happened was the security member politely asked for drinks to be finished and for people to move out. David Hookes turned to him and said “Fuck you”.’ ‘No, he did not.’ ‘I suggest the security [guard] then said, “Look mate, there’s no need for that, just move outside” and Hookes said, “You want me to repeat myself? Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you”.’ ‘Not that I saw.’ ‘I suggest you were affected by alcohol, you overreacted, you jumped in and you tore off the security tags.’ ‘I did not.’ ‘I suggest to you [that] you are being untruthful.’ ‘I’m not being untruthful.’ ‘When you say the security member threatened to kill David Hookes, I put to you that is false.’ ‘I disagree with you.’ ‘I suggest your memory of these events is more fulsome than you are prepared to admit … I suggest you are deliberately pre-

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tending you can’t remember things. I suggest your memory is not honestly a slide show … it is simply a matter of being selective about what you want to portray.’ ‘I saw a man get killed that night. Whether it’s the stress of that I don’t know but I can only tell you what I remember and I’m telling you honestly.’ ‘Have you ever had a slide-show memory in relation to any other event in your life?’ ‘No but I’ve never been through anything like that before.’ ‘You idolised David Hookes and you are determined that nothing will fall from your lips which paints anyone in … your group … in any way at fault.’ ‘You’re wrong.’ ‘The upshot of your memory is that it has the happy coincidence of not suggesting in any way, shape or form that anyone in your group behaved other than appropriately.’ ‘I can only tell you what I remember.’ ‘I have nothing further, Your Honour.’

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DARREN LEHMANN

‘Did you see anything that caused Mr Hookes to be on the ground?’ ‘No.’ ‘When you saw him on the ground what did you do?’ ‘I rang the ambulance and the police.’ RAY ELSTON OF

TO

DARREN LEHMANN,

DAY TWO OF THE TRIAL

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Darren Lehmann is a well-known Australian cricketer. Captain of South Australia’s Redbacks he, like Hookes, was a left-handed player born in Adelaide. He holds the record for the highest number of runs scored at the domestic first-class level. Lehmann, one of David Hookes’s closest friends, was with Hookes at the pub the night he died and was at the hospital the night the decision was made to turn off his life support. He has experienced what seems to me to be a type of post-traumatic stress disorder since the death of his beloved friend, writing that: I have found it very tough to sleep since David’s death. I wake up in a cold sweat most nights and that’s generally the end of my sleep for the evening. I can’t go to nightclubs or pubs any more without feeling vulnerable … I can be sitting somewhere alone and the whole thing will come flooding back to me and

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I will just break down. Something inside me says I am weak and I start telling myself to get over it and move on but I can’t. I just have no control over it. The whole incident shook me up much more than I ever thought it could.80

Lehmann wrote a moving tribute to Hookes in the Adelaide Sunday Mail, saying of Hookes: As a kid I hoped to be just like him one day. He was everything that I loved … [T]he senseless death of David Hookes has left the world a poorer place for us and there is a massive hole in my heart. I am left with fond memories of a man I idolised for many years and still do … I am going to miss you mate. You helped make me the person I am today. I think about you every moment of the day and I want you back … Rest in peace my friend. Love you mate, Darren.

Reading the transcript of Terry Forrest’s examination of Darren Lehmann made a passage that I had read in Helen Garner’s most recent book ring true. Garner wrote: One of the props of the adversarial system … is a curious charade that memory is a clear, coherent narrative, a stable and unchanging source of information, so that any deviation from a witness’s original version of an event can be manhandled to look like unreliability or the intent to deceive.81

Reading the case transcript I marvelled at the demands placed on all parties to recollect the minutiae of these tiny moments: left foot here or there, looking left or right? During his two hours in the witness stand Lehmann is caught with a small inaccuracy in his evidence. Someone’s liberty was at stake, a young man was facing the possibility of many years in jail and of course nothing but absolute precision should be expected. Nevertheless I felt sorry for these people, grieving the loss of their friend, standing in such an intimidating environment, being mercilessly questioned, tripped up, caught out, portrayed as lying drunks. That is the way our legal system works; its rigours can seem cruel at times but

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they are also an essential safeguard, they are the accused’s last desperate grasp for freedom. Terry Forrest asked Lehmann: ‘By 11.30 you’d had several beers?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You weren’t drunk?’ ‘No.’ ‘Your capacity to observe was intact?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘You told us a little earlier that you saw David Hookes coming out of the smoke room, being restrained. They were your words. You’ve had a chance to read the statement you made to the police?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You’ve refreshed your memory from that statement?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You know that you told the police that you remember Hookes coming out of the smoke room, being restrained by a security man. Do you accept that you said that to the police?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘It’s the same as you told us in your evidence in chief today isn’t it?’ ‘Yes.’ Forrest pulled out his trump card: ‘What you said in your statement was incorrect. He wasn’t coming out of the smoke room at all, he was beyond the smoke room when you saw him being restrained. Isn’t that right?’ Lehmann faltered. ‘It depends on how you decipher coming out of the smoke room. I would have said coming out of the smoke room is coming out, as in to the bar area.’ It was no good. His stumbling response could not undo the damage: by mistakenly thinking he saw Hookes coming out of the smoke room, instead of seeing him beyond the room, his evidence was tarnished and, under Forrest’s questioning, it continued on its downhill slide.

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‘Do you say that you have a full recollection of the evening?’ ‘No.’ ‘You haven’t blocked things out have you?’ ‘I missed parts, I’m sure.’ ‘You told journalist Gideon Haigh in an article in the Sunday Age that you had blocked out of your mind various events of the evening, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Was that the truth?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘If there is evidence in this Court that you were involved in the application of physical force upon the security staff of the hotel would you deny that?’ ‘I would deny that, yes.’ ‘Is that something you may have blocked out, Mr Lehmann?’ ‘I don’t think I’d forget that, no.’ ‘You understand there might be a difference between forgetting things and blocking them out. Is that something you have blocked out?’ ‘I haven’t blocked that out.’ Forrest asked Lehmann many questions about events as they occurred on the night, to which Lehmann answered that he saw, heard and recalled practically nothing. ‘Now, you don’t see in the hotel any interchange between David Hookes and the bar staff?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘You don’t hear what precipitated his ejection from the hotel?’ ‘Correct.’ ‘You don’t see one or two women launch themselves on the security within the hotel?’ ‘No.’ ‘You don’t see Mr Phillips seek to physically intervene to stop the ejection of Mr Hookes?’

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‘No.’ ‘You have no memory of any bad language used by the cricketers?’ ‘Just lots of noise and yelling.’ ‘You don’t remember any pushing and shoving in Cowderoy Street or physical altercation whatsoever?’ ‘Apart from the pushing of David.’ ‘You are unable to provide us with any recollection of any incident even remotely like what’s described by some of the residents in Cowderoy Street?’ ‘That’s correct.’ Round and round they spiralled for two hours, teasing out Lehmann’s position that he had been present during all crucial moments but was unable to say that he had seen or heard practically anything. ‘You concede that you told a journalist that you have blocked certain events out of your mind?’ ‘That’s correct.’ ‘Obviously if you’ve blocked them out you can’t tell us what they are?’ ‘That’s your words, not mine.’ ‘Well, you tell me what you’ve blocked out of your mind.’ ‘I’ve got no idea. I think I can remember most things. It was the most traumatic period of my life.’ ‘I understand that.’ The questioning skilfully conveyed that these events all definitely occurred, but through Lehmann’s fault of memory or deliberate obstructiveness he remembered little. Forrest asked Lehmann: ‘Christine Padfield and Wayne Phillips both say they witnessed you physically intervening, was that wrong?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You didn’t hear Mr Hookes mention that he’d refer to the hotel on his radio show?’

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‘No.’ ‘Refer to the hotel in unfavourable terms? “You’re fucked, heads will spin”?’ ‘No.’ ‘I put it to you that Mr Hookes was having a go back physically?’ ‘No.’ ‘I suggest to you that David Hookes was argumentative and physically aggressive.’ ‘No.’ Since the trial Lehmann has said: ‘I’ve still got David’s number in my phone, I just can’t delete it. When I went into hospital and they were just about to turn off the life support system and it was just him and me I was mumbling because I was crying the whole time. From that moment on, it has felt like he comes with me everywhere. I think about him everyday. I just can’t stop thinking about those who were with him on the night [he died]. It’s changed me. I’d never been through this before, never seen death so close up’.82

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ROGER SWEET

‘Your mate David is in big trouble. He is lying on the road down the street.’ GREG SHIPPERD,


ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

Roger Sweet owns a hire-car business in Adelaide. He grew up in the same street in Torrensville that David Hookes did, and painted a clear, vivid picture of those days. Sweet was one of Hookes’s links with the older Australia, his life before fame. We spoke for two hours on the telephone late at night. I curled up under a quilt on my couch and listened, completely mesmerised, to his straight-talking, heartfelt and deeply touching words. ‘I’ve had my car-hire business for around twenty years now. When I took over the business David was my first business partner, that was when he was captain of South Australia and just starting his media career. After about nine months things in the business went sour between us, bloody sour indeed and he left the business and moved on. We didn’t speak for about ten years. Damn shame that was, because I grew up with David. I’m also from Torrensville, and I lived three houses down from the Hooke’s. I’m seven years older than him and I’m the first bloke who ever took him to the oval after school in the evenings. I’d get

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home from school and every evening we’d play cricket, in the garden or on the concrete. I’d bowl golf balls at him and even at that age he’d just whack them, he’d hit them incredibly. We’d go walking together at night. He was always barefoot. I remember the night he batted in my school cricket team in his bare feet. As little boys we lived for playing our sport together. We never played cowboys and Indians or any of those sorts of games. It was just the sport: cricket, footy, marbles. ‘I’d always have dinner at my house at five in the evening then go round to the Hookes’s and have a second dinner. It’s a bloody wonder I’m not as big as a shed, but I’m not. David’s mum Pat was a wonderful woman, she was like a second mother to me. Pat was always so praising and encouraging, she was such a great old bird. She loved her cigarettes. She was tough though, if we ever smashed a window playing cricket we’d bloody well have to pay for it. She’d make us mow the lawn, or paint the kennel or do those sorts of jobs. She was big on teaching us right from wrong, you know what I mean? We respected her for it. When Pat was crook in hospital, Wayne Phillips and I went to visit her, even though I hate hospitals. Can’t bear ’em. But I wanted to see Pat, she treated me like a son even when David and I weren’t talking. After Pat’s funeral David and I went to the pub with Robyn, Caprice, Kristofer and Rob Zadow. ‘David’s dad Russell was a really funny, great flippant guy. He’d throw his head back and laugh real loud, it was infectious, do you know what I mean? Russell’s humour was just infectious. David got that from him, that humour, that quick-wittedness. Russell died, Pat died, then David, now they’ve gone. It’s bloody unbelievable. David was like the brother I never had. I’m an only child you see, and he was just like me bloody brother. Bloody hell, Jesus Christ he shouldn’t be dead, he just shouldn’t be. For the life of me I don’t understand how that bugger that punched him got off. ‘When David was younger he was a bit naive, he didn’t know shit from clay to put it bluntly, love, but he always had the gift of

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the gab. He was such a brilliant speaker, just unbelievable. I used to watch him on Foxtel. We weren’t speaking at that stage, but I’d always watch him. The rapport he had talking to people was incredible. He had this uncanny ability to get on with any audience. He was bloody brilliant. He had a great retentive memory, if he was still alive by the time he got to my bloody age he’d be recognised for his amazing bloody knowledge. Sorry about all the swear words, love. He could walk into any room with his head high, his shoulders were always back, he was always well dressed, well groomed. He had a magnetic personality, he just drew people towards him. ‘David’s brother Terry is a great guy, I speak to him every Saturday, but I don’t like talking about David with him, because he gets just so upset. Terry got me and David together again after our fallin’ out. We all had a drink together at the West Adelaide Footy Club. I have a beer there every day, and it was the perfect place to patch things up. It was just fantastic to be with him again, we picked up right where we left off. After our beer I sat in the car and cried. I went back to work but the tears kept rolling down my face. Words can’t express how David and I got along. He was the biggest part of my childhood. “Sweetlips”, he used to call me – you know, because my last name’s Sweet. “Ahh, Sweetlips”, he’d say. Once he wrote an article in the Adelaide Advertiser reminiscing about the old days, before our tiff it was, and he wrote “Sweetlips was in the backyard”. I used to kick the footy with him, him in his bare feet. Mum used to say, “There’s the Hookes kid hitting the tennis ball again”. With his hand–eye co-ordination and his will to win he could have played Davis Cup tennis. Then he started playing cricket. He had the long hair and an eye like a dead fish. He deserved all he got out of the game. He deserved to be alive and enjoy more of the riches of the game. ‘It was like crap losing him. When I found out David was dead, I couldn’t believe it. He had so much to live for. I was so shocked, we were so close. I mean, there’s a guy I’d just seen –

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gone, just like that. There’s a great guy over here called David Raggat, Raggs we call him.83 A year after David’s death, Raggs rang and invited me to a lunch held in David’s memory. It was kind of like a wake a year after the wake. The lunch was held at a venue owned by two guys from the Adelaide Crows. There were about twenty of us blokes, mostly elite sportsmen. We sat around a big square table and we all went around the table taking turns saying, “What would you say to Hookesy if he were here now?” When it my turn, I couldn’t speak. I started crying and just sat there. I was embarrassed but everyone was good about it. They understood, if you know what I mean. Eventually I managed to say, “We grew up together, we had a falling out, thank God we got together again. If we hadn’t I’d regret it for the rest of my life”. We all talked about him, he touched us all in a special way, you know what I’m saying? ‘Jesus, it puts a big hole in you. I went to the memorial service. I hated it, it just killed me seeing the hearse come on, then the coffin. It ripped my guts apart mate, it hurt like buggery. He was taken so bloody young. He was just getting to the top, he was so good at what he did. When I’d see him on television, this was when we weren’t talking, I’d say to Judy my wife “Jesus, he’s good, isn’t he?” He was such an amazing character. He was absolutely loved in the media cause they knew how good he was. His memory for sport was amazing. Not just cricket either, he could talk about anything – Jamaican long-distance running if he wanted. Let’s face it, for the short time he was on this earth he was a bloody marvel.’

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THE ACCUSED

‘When you had the confrontation with Mr Hookes, why did you hit him in the head?’ ‘I didn’t really have time to think, I just threw a punch back. I didn’t know where it was going to land.’ RAY ELSTON OF

TO

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC,

DAY NINE OF THE TRIAL

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Zdravko Micevic made a two-hour appearance on the ninth day of the trial. Micevic had been working as a bouncer, earning between $16 and $22 an hour. He worked for an agency, rather than for one particular hotel, moving between rough-as-guts pubs and flashy renovated bars. His work generally entailed cleaning up with the manager, mopping vomit from floors and, of course, moving drunken patrons on. Since the trial he has been working as a concreter. He had a youthful, babyish face and wore his hair in a ‘Beckham mohawk’, a style made popular by the English soccer star David Beckham. The hair was swept from both sides of the head up into a crest on the top of the head. The crest was kept in place with a great deal of hair gel. I had an image of him doing his hair in the mirror each morning before Court, fear making him a virtual automaton as he preened.

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It was fairly unusual for Micevic to be called to the witness stand; most defendants in trials such as this are not called on to give evidence. By appearing, the accused is opening himself up to cross-examination from the prosecution and it is possible to be cast in an unfavourable light, to be not able to explain things properly, to be made out to be a liar in the eyes of the jury. The decision whether or not to call on the accused is made by the defence team who will only decide to do so if they feel confident in their client and his or her ability to endure the rigours of the witness stand. Forrest asked Micevic to describe what happened when he approached David Hookes and Sue-Anne Hunter. ‘At about 11.20 I have to walk through the pub and tell patrons that it’s closing time. I called last drinks and walked off. I came back a time later and asked them to finish their drinks again. The gentleman swore at me, saying “Fuck you”. I told him there was no need for that. Then he said, “Do you want me to repeat myself?” and repeated it again, about three times. That’s when I asked him to leave and he wouldn’t, he got really aggressive so he had to be restrained and pushed outside.’ ‘What do you mean by restrained?’ ‘Well I grabbed his right arm with my left arm. He sort of tried to elbow me with his right arm, so then I put both of my hands on his right side. Then I put my left hand on his back and tried to push him outside.’ ‘What was he doing at this stage?’ ‘He was getting real aggressive and he was trying to release the hold and he was trying to elbow me. His mates were also trying to get involved and release him from us when he was still aggressive. There was a female that jumped on me from behind. She had to be pulled off by another security guard. His mates were pulling on me, jumping on my back from the side. There were about two or three males and about two or three females. The women were trying to slap us.’

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‘Did you use the words, “Skol your drink, bitch”?’ ‘I would not have used those words on that night or any night. It’s not very professional.’ ‘What occurred after you got the cricketers outside the front of the hotel?’ ‘They were being very abusive to us, swearing at us, saying who the fuck do we think we are. I remember a lady telling us she was going to sue us. Once I got off the steps I was telling them to move on and David Hookes came at me, but I didn’t see it. Willy, one of the security guards, pushed me out the way so he didn’t get to me.’ ‘At any stage did the cricket group walk of their own accord towards the corner?’ ‘Yes, they would start walking off but then they’d come back and keep going again. It’s like they didn’t want to leave.’ ‘What happened when you moved to the corner of Cowderoy Street?’ ‘Pushing, shoving, a lot of aggression. There were a lot of people, things moved really quickly.’ ‘We’ve heard evidence there was a scuffle outside the milkbar.’ ‘Yes, there was lots of pushing and shoving and wrestling and loud yelling and abuse.’ ‘How were you feeling at that stage?’ ‘A bit worried, because the security staff were outnumbered by the cricket group.’ ‘At that stage what happened with Mr Hookes?’ ‘As the scuffle was happening he hit me in the stomach twice. He grabbed me by my shirt and he pulled me down. My head was basically down on his chest, and that’s where I was. I was worried about getting pulled down to the ground and I threw a punch back.’ ‘And that punch obviously connected?’ ‘Yes.’

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‘Why did you throw the punch?’ ‘I was scared of falling on to the ground and not being able to protect myself, or getting kicked as I was on the ground.’ ‘What effect did his punches have on you?’ ‘They winded me.’ ‘Completely winded or a little bit?’ ‘It winded me enough to feel it.’ ‘At the time you threw the punch how did you feel?’ ‘Frightened. I was getting pulled to the ground and I couldn’t see.’ Ray Elston asked Micevic about the night: ‘I suggest you said to the lady drinking with David Hookes, “Skol your drink, bitch”.’ ‘No, I didn’t.’ ‘So for absolutely no reason apparent to you this man swears at you?’ ‘That’s right.’ ‘Then says, “Fuck you” three more times?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘At this stage you say you are obliged to restrain the man?’ ‘First I told him there was no need for that.’ ‘So when you spoke to him it was polite?’ ‘Yes, it was polite.’ ‘So you were polite towards the lady in relation to “Last drinks”?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And he’s sworn at you in this way and you were polite to him as well?’ ‘Yes. I was surprised he said it then I told him there was no need for it and to finish up and move out.’ ‘Out in front of the hotel, is there any reason you didn’t call the police?’ ‘It all happened so quickly, we were outnumbered. I didn’t have a chance to leave and call the police.’

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‘You had no interest in calling the police, you were concentrating on this group?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And indeed I suggest you were concentrating on Mr Hookes?’ ‘Not necessarily Mr Hookes.’ ‘Why didn’t you remove yourself from the scene completely and stop the confrontation?’ ‘Because they’ve come at us.’ ‘At one stage there was a woman with her hands on your chest saying, “Just leave us alone, let us go”?’ ‘No.’ ‘Did you see a car angle across the middle of the road?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I suggest that you wanted to get around that car and get at Mr Hookes.’ ‘No.’ ‘Do you suggest they were attacking you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You’re outnumbered?’ ‘Yes, and they’re pretty big tall guys.’ ‘All the more reason to head off back to the hotel, isn’t it?’ ‘We didn’t get a chance to. It happened pretty quick.’ ‘Why did you have to get so close to Mr Hookes at all?’ ‘I was just trying to move him on. That’s when he hit me in the stomach.’ ‘Then he’s grabbed you, you say?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘So we have a punch to the stomach?’ ‘Yes. Then he grabbed me on the chest, by my shirt and started dragging me to the ground.’ ‘Did you try and brush his arms away?’ ‘I tried pushing him away but I couldn’t break his grip.’ ‘By this stage your head was on his chest?’ ‘Yes.’

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‘That’s when you punched him?’ ‘Yes, when he started dragging me down that’s when I threw a punch back.’ ‘I suggest that the punch you threw was a very forceful punch indeed.’ ‘I couldn’t tell because it happened pretty quickly. I just threw it back, I don’t know if it was very hard.’ ‘At the stage you say you were hit, why didn’t you just break free and get the police?’ ‘Because I couldn’t break free.’ ‘Why didn’t you push him in the chest?’ ‘I tried that but he out-held me.’ ‘Why didn’t you punch him in the stomach?’ ‘Like I said, it was an instinct. I was worried and scared, I was under pressure.’ ‘You had the right and left sides of his body available to punch, but you went for the head didn’t you?’ ‘It was an instinct. I didn’t think about where I’m going to hit him, it was just unfortunate that it hit him in the head.’ ‘I suggest to you that it didn’t happen that way at all. You were targeting David Hookes and you went after him.’ ‘No.’ ‘Because you were angry because of what he’d said to you. You formed an aggressive attitude to him from the time you were in the bar.’ ‘No.’ ‘So from the start of this episode to the end of it when you’ve delivered a punch, at no stage during this entire process do you say you’ve become angry?’ ‘No.’ ‘Are you agitated?’ ‘I was worried but I wasn’t angry.’ ‘I suggest that you persisted and targeted Mr Hookes all the way down Cowderoy Street because he had got you angry?’

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‘No I didn’t get angry because I ejected him. We eject a lot of people at venues but you have to be professional.’ ‘I suggest to you that the man you ejected and the man you followed was ultimately the man you physically confronted and struck. I suggest you were so angry with him you belted him as hard in the face as you could, out of a pay-back?’ ‘No, that’s not how it happened.’ Back and forward they went, expressing two simple, opposing concepts in a multitude of ways. The first that Micevic was deliberately aggressive, the second that he was an innocent, defending himself from attack. A stream of character witnesses for the defence were called and all painted a very consistent picture of Micevic, the dominant word being shy. First there was Herbert Cowell, who taught Micevic in his secondary college. Cowell described Micevic as ‘reliable, honest, very reserved and shy’. Next came Micevic’s neighbour, Nernad Dimitrijerbic, who described Zdravko as ‘a real nice boy, a polite boy, a shy boy’. Then Jeremy Dawson, a concreter who now employed Micevic. He described him as ‘honest, quiet and very humble’. Boxing trainer Ben Brizz described Micevic as ‘an unassuming shy kid’. Damien Argenti, the assistant manager of the pub, said that ‘Micevic had always been professional and courteous in his dealings with staff’. Peter Clare was the manager of the agency that provided security staff to pubs around Victoria, the Beaconsfield Hotel being one. At the time of David Hookes’s death Micevic had been employed by Clare for two years. Clare described Micevic as ‘a role-model employee, extremely tolerant with patrons. He can be a quiet man but all the patrons enjoyed his company. I used him as a role model for anyone new and he was mature beyond his years. He was the perfect employee. I described his personality in the police report as quiet, shy and humble. His work ethic is amazingly high and he is highly regarded by all managers and

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patrons. Often managers would request that Zdravko worked in their venues. I can’t speak highly enough of him. He has fantastic tolerance and patience, he was beyond reproach as a security officer.’

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WAYNE PHILLIPS

‘You’ve told us you didn’t see Hookes being struck, but you saw him go to the ground?’ ‘Yes, he fell in front of me.’ TERRY FORREST OF

TO

WAYNE PHILLIPS,

DAY FOUR OF THE TRIAL

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Wayne Phillips was the coach of the South Australian cricket team that had been defeated by the Victorian Bushrangers on the day of Hookes’s death. After the match Phillips had led a debriefing of the team at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, and then went back to his hotel. Whilst at the hotel, some time after 8.00 p.m., David Hookes rang Phillips and invited him for a post-match drink at the Beaconsfield Hotel. Philips arrived at the hotel around 9.30 p.m., with Darren Lehmann and physiotherapist Jonathon Porter. Like everyone else at the trial, Phillips was asked about the amount of alcohol that he had consumed. ‘I had three stubbies of full-strength beer at the ground, then at the pub I had another four beers’, he answered. Wayne Phillips was like gold for Micevic’s defence team. Although he was part of the cricket group, he was the only one who admitted that he saw less-than-perfect behaviour from the cricketers in general and David Hookes in particular. He said

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that both Hookes and Micevic were involved in a forceful language exchange and that ‘strong language was used’ by both of them. He reported that security said, ‘Why don’t you just fuck off?’ and Hookes responded, ‘You’re fucked, you mob’. Phillips continued to deliver for the defence. Forrest asked if it was fair to describe David Hookes as ‘very very angry’ after he was ejected from the pub, to which Phillips replied ‘I’d certainly say aggressive, yes’. He admitted that he had heard David Hookes threaten to close down the pub and ‘spray them’ on radio and that ‘Hookes was resisting’ the security guards’ efforts to eject him. Crucially, Phillips also saw David Hookes in the centre of a tight group of brawling individuals, a ‘rolling maul’ as Forrest called it, of cricketers and security guards. This was at odds with other versions of the night that had Hookes standing apart from the group, not involved in the affray, until Micevic strode out and punched him. Phillips was rewarded by Terry Forrest, who praised Phillips and his integrity, and said that he was the ‘honest man in the group’.

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NUTS AND AMAZONS

‘I was trying to get David into the car.’ CHRISTINE PADFIELD,


ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

The role of the women drinking that night with the cricketers was interesting. During the trial it was clear that the women were very excited to be going to the pub with famous men. Celebrities have admirers, those drawn to the thrill of being part of the lives of the stars. Much of the admirer’s self-image rests on their association with these stars, despite the fact that in their own lives they may be successful high-achievers. Damien Sheales set Tania Plumpton up as a devoted admirer early on in the trial: ‘It would be fair to describe yourself as a cricket nut?’ ‘Yes’. ‘Would it be fair to say David Hookes was your idol?’ ‘When I was younger, yes.’ ‘You idolised David Hookes and you are determined that nothing will fall from your lips which paints him or anyone in your group in any way at fault.’ Sheales also said to Sue-Anne Hunter: ‘You are a huge cricket fan, and a fan of David Hookes.’

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The women accompanying the cricketers were referred to as ‘girls’ and ‘young girls’ by the cricketers. It was also the women’s preferred description of themselves and throughout the trial they used words describing themselves as dependent, child-like and young. They were all working, holding down jobs, running their lives in what was probably a competent and adult way. For example, Sue-Anne Hunter worked in childcare at the Victorian Aboriginal Childcare Agency. She has a responsible, senior position and had been a senior project officer in many important areas. In gender relations though, she appeared happy to be protected by an alphamale. Hookes was alleged to have said, ‘You shouldn’t be asking such a young girl to skol her drinks’. Hunter said that, when Micevic insulted her, she didn’t respond but waited for Hookes to defend her. Christine Padfield described how ‘David took SueAnne into the little room where the smoke machine was to speak to her and console her’. The image is that of a parent taking a distraught child aside to comfort them. Tania Plumpton, in the tone of one conveying a compliment, referred to Hunter’s ‘cute little voice’. When interviewed on Australian Story, Plumpton did an impersonation of Hunter’s voice, affecting the style of a child. I spoke to Hunter on the telephone when she was at work. Her voice was pleasant and efficient. She was reliable, organised and rang me back exactly when she said she would, to the minute. To my ear there was no hint of a cute little voice but I was speaking to her at work in her professional capacity. Christine Padfield was a picture of traditional femininity: curvaceous, pretty, gentle and softly spoken with long, dyed blonde hair. I hadn’t realised it was possible to be so identified by one’s hair colour: her blonde hair was referred to many, many times throughout the trial. Blonde hair was abundantly apparent at another prominent cricket occasion. Journalist Chris Johnson

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wrote about the celebration at the Allan Border Medal: ‘All of the cricketers’ wives or girlfriends bar one were strikingly blonde’.84 He quoted John Armstrong who was an associate professor of philosophy at the University of Melbourne: The cricketers’ wives may well have deep emotional qualities. There may well be a lot more to them than … vivid ultrablonde hair. But it’s not on the agenda to signal things like her intelligence, her depth of soul, her PhD in astrophysics or her tender mothering skills.

Christine Padfield, like all the cricketers’ wives or girlfriends, had the appropriate appearance. We all wear different social masks – our work face, our family face, the face of our gender relationships. The mask the cricket women wore was that of the child-woman. The interesting things about these roles is that everyone knows that they are make-believe. It is rather like seeing a play at the theatre. When you watch a good play, you are moved and touched by the performers. You can believe them, be affected emotionally, cry and laugh. But everyone knows the reality behind it all. When the show is over, the curtain falls, the lights come on, the actors remove their make-up revealing their true selves. Hamlet becomes Mike, Romeo and Juliet become Kevin and Ann. For a play to work we must believe the characters, a kind of agreeable, known but unstated, mutual deception. But when matters of life and death arose, the women stripped off their infantile masks in the same way that Clark Kent shed his mild-mannered guise. They became Amazonians galloping to save their prince; they showed their true, strong mettle, which, as everybody really knew, was there the whole time. The descriptions of Christine Padfield’s actions were like something from an action movie. Padfield was sober, having drunk only one glass of champagne and sipped water the rest of the night. When she realised that Hookes was in trouble, she became Tarantino’s Jackie Brown, she became Lara Croft.

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During the trial she describes sprinting along the road as fast as she could. She was wearing red thongs on her feet as she ran, and as I imagined her racing through the darkness I could almost hear the repetitive ‘slap, slap’ of her thongs banging on the road. Once she reached her car, a silver Mitsubishi coupe, she leapt into it, reversed from where she was parked and drove to the centre of the road. She sharply spun her car in an angle across the road and leant across, swung the door open, and screamed for Hookes to get in. The women’s actions made an impact on a number of the witnesses. Witnesses in the hotel described Tania Plumpton as having ‘launched herself’ on to Micevic’s back. The image was that of a rocket taking off. Her fingernails broke, a security tag ripped. Plumpton described wedging herself between Hookes and Micevic, pushing Micevic’s chest, protecting Hookes who was standing behind her. Plumpton also leapt into the back of Padfield’s car, yelling for Hookes to climb in. Security guard Willy Taulelei Niumata described seeing ‘the ladies trying to rip at Strav’ as he was trying to eject Hookes. He also saw ‘one of the ladies jump on Strav’s back’. Witness Lucas Caciolo said at the trial ‘The women were screaming the loudest’ and Micevic told the court that the ‘women were jumping on my back from the side’. They were no longer fawning child-women: they had become formidable warrior-women springing into action.

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JUSTICE PHILIP CUMMINS

‘The judge usually knows far less than people at the bar table and I’m quite sure I know far less than the four of you so I’ll keep out of it.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS,


ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

Being a judge is no mean feat. Justice Philip Cummins maintained a controlled court despite the external pressures and was never anything but even-handed, even down to matters far removed from legal argument. As the women were cricket nuts, then surely he was a grammar nut with the subset of correct use of tense as his pet mischegas (eccentricity). For example: Day three: Justice Cummins: ‘You are asking in the present tense again. You asked about two people in the present tense.’ Terry Forrest: ‘I apologise.’ Day four: Justice Cummins: ‘What are we talking about?’ Ray Elston: ‘Sorry did I slip again?’ Justice Cummins: ‘You’re constantly slipping … You’ve got the witness to change from the past tense into the present tense.’ Ray Elston: ‘I apologise for that.’

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Justice Cummins: ‘I wasn’t being pedantic, both you Mr Elston and you Mr Forrest used the fashion of the continuous present. It can distract witnesses when you use the present tense which is in fact entirely ungrammatical … and unfair on witnesses.’ By all accounts, small quirks and all, Justice Cummins performed a difficult job superbly. When I interviewed Terry Cranage he had been emphatic about how impressed he was with Justice Cummins saying: ‘I thought the judge was fantastic, and I couldn’t imagine getting a better one. It made me, and I’m sure many others, feel comfortable that he didn’t wear a wig. He was helpful to everyone. His summing up was very good, he was very gentle and repeated the important issues. I also thought he was understanding and sympathetic to the jury and what they had to go through’. Several others that had been present during the case said the same: Cummins was respectful to all involved and clear in his legal directions. The legal counsel was, as most legal counsel generally are, deferential to Justice Cummins: there was much forelock tugging and a great many ‘as Your Honour pleases’. After his time as a juror, Malcolm Knox wrote about the jury’s views regarding the dynamic between the judge and the lawyers saying ‘It was wise for (the barristers) to stay onside with the judge in front of the jury. We liked and respected the judge, and any rudeness from either barrister would have been marked against him’. Given the very favourable attitudes to Justice Cummins that I had come across, I imagined that a similar sentiment would have been felt by jurors during the trial of Micevic. Justice Cummins had gravely introduced proceedings: ‘You are charged that on the nineteenth of January 2004 you killed David Hookes. That is the legal expression for manslaughter’. Throughout the case Justice Cummins demonstrated that he was perceptive enough to know the importance of the small

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details. He told the jurors that if a lawyer walked past and ignored them, didn’t say hello, didn’t respond to a friendly gesture, it was not because they were being rude, but it was because of procedure. To ensure the jury remained utterly impartial, the lawyers were unable to mingle in any way with the jurors, and this extended even to a basic greeting. Aside from the juror’s feelings, it was wise for Justice Cummins to spell this out, as it was important for the jurors not to think one of the lawyers was rude and therefore punish him when making their decision. Justice Cummins also seemed to know very accurately the way that the families of both Hookes and Micevic were feeling when he said, ‘For the accused and his family and Robyn Hookes and her family waiting for the jury verdict is the hardest part because you are just waiting. It can take a long time because juries are very conscientious and work through all the evidence’. This was exactly what Terry Cranage and others had expressed to me: the agony of the protracted waiting was the most unbearable part of the proceedings. Justice Cummins also expressed concern for the family of Hookes, listening to the details of his injuries, and advised them when he thought that the details would be too much for them to bear and that it would be best if they absented themselves.

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JOSEPH ROBILOTTA

‘You went on Today Tonight for an interview, is that right?’ ‘Yes at 7.30 in the morning after two hours’ sleep.’ TERRY FORREST TRIAL OF

TO JOSEPH

ROBILOTTA,

DAY SEVEN OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Joseph Robilotta was perhaps the most pitiful of the witnesses and I found myself wincing as Forrest made mincemeat of him. Robilotta’s time in the witness stand must have been the type of nightmare that you torment yourself with by reliving in painful, ugly detail. We have all had black moments in our lives when we have felt exposed: Robilotta’s dirty linen was not only aired but paraded around town accompanied by flashing lights and wailing sirens. The reason Robilotta had to be utterly humiliated by the defence team was that for approximately three minutes he observed the clash between the cricketers and the security staff from the window of his Cowderoy Street apartment. He subsequently reported that he saw the defenceless Hookes with his arms by his side being punched by Micevic. Forrest had to swoop in for the kill and discredit this witness and by extension his evidence. He did so by portraying Robilotta as a desperate media junkie.

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Admittedly, this would have been one of Forrest’s easiest tasks: Robilotta was certainly very active during his fifteen minutes of fame. ‘You made yourself available to a number of media outlets,’ began Forrest gleefully, ‘Channel 9, Channel 7, Channel 10, Channel 2, SBS, Fox, Sky, Today Tonight’. ‘You were prepared to make yourself available to give your impressions of what had transpired.’ ‘That’s correct’, answered Robilotta. ‘It was a pretty traumatic event.’ ‘It is and it’s one I suggest you were more than happy to tell the media about.’ ‘Well death, anyone’s death, is not something to boast about so I don’t know where you’re coming from.’ ‘You offered to numerous news channels your alleged reenactment of what you say occurred.’ ‘That’s correct.’ ‘I suggest you have an axe to grind against the security industry, don’t you?’ ‘Not really.’ ‘You have gone on record in the media as describing them as ego-driven, haven’t you? You were prepared to offer the media not only the benefit of your astute observations, you were prepared to psychoanalyse the participants. On this night in question you exaggerated what you saw to the media for your own gratification and self-promotion.’ All of Robilotta’s evidence became increasingly devalued as he seemed so self-serving an individual. Things went from bad to worse. Forrest described how, the day after witnessing the incident, Robilotta rang Charles Slade, a Channel Nine reporter, and asked if there was a spot available for him on the reality renovation show The Block. ‘You were prepared to try and turn this tragedy into a vehicle for self-promotion’, said Forrest. ‘You said you’d be an ideal candidate.’ The Block was a television show where four couples moved into four identical apartments which they renovated and then

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tried to sell at auction. The couple obtaining the highest price for their renovated apartment was the winner and received a significant amount of prize money. I felt for Robilotta. He was a bartender, probably earning about a tenth of what a QC earned, I didn’t regard his taking advantage of his situation and pursuing a very humble ambition to be on The Block as harshly as Forrest had to. Forrest was just, as Robilotta ruefully expressed, ‘doing his job very well’. More importantly, even if Robilotta did desperately, even pathetically try to exploit the situation, his evidence remained the same. But his credibility was reduced in the jury’s eyes: by exposing him as a flawed individual, Forrest had, by association, discredited Robilotta’s version of events. Like a fish out of water, Robilotta flailed around, trying hopelessly to defend himself: ‘I don’t appreciate being disrespected by you and being labelled as a grandstander,’ he said, ‘it’s not nice, ’cause I’ve worked very hard to get to where I am’. He unsuccessfully struggled to salvage a crumb of dignity, stammering. ‘A death is not a … a … I don’t need to … you’re just doing your job very well.’ He was absolutely accurate. Forrest was doing his job superbly. Being so shamed, Robilotta didn’t turn around and say, ‘So what? I might be a desperate media junkie, but I saw what I saw. My modest media ambitions don’t affect my evidence’. In his book about the jury system, Malcolm Knox referred to a jury researcher’s view that ‘In most criminal trials the verdict more often than not hinges on whose witnesses – the Crown’s or the defendant’s – the jury chose to believe. It boils down to a matter of credibility’.85 The shaming of Robilotta was possibly deserved – Robilotta made a number of inappropriate and inaccurate remarks to the media that seemed to be motivated by a desire to ingratiate himself with the bloodthirsty journalistic climate. For example, he said on the Today Tonight show, ‘I know what these bouncers are like. I just know the type of ego thing this was about. It is just a

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sort of ego thing for the bouncer to do. Just give him a good whack’. I think the most pressing question of all arising from the wretched Robilotta was how on earth could Today Tonight justify broadcasting these damaging words? As Ray Elston said in his closing address regarding Robilotta, ‘You can be as critical as you like of subsequent events, but it’s what he saw that matters’.

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ANTHONY PERKS

‘Your friend rang you and he was excited that Darren Berry, David Hookes and Darren Lehmann were at the hotel?’ ‘Yes.’ TERRY FORREST TRIAL OF

TO

ANTHONY PERKS,

DAY SEVEN OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Anthony Perks was a design systems manager living in Cowderoy Street. He was not connected to the cricket team or the security guards, making him one of the ‘impartial witnesses’ that Detective Senior Sergeant Bezzina had referred to. In his analysis of testimony, academic Tony Coady discussed ‘impartial witnesses’. He said that in court cases it was thought that a witness who was a neutral, objective ‘outsider,’ who stood neither to gain nor to lose by the outcome of the case, had to be more reliable because of their impartiality. Coady debunked this commonly held opinion, saying [V]ery few people, if any fit such a characterisation. There are, of course, impartial people but they are not necessarily people who have nothing to gain from, or no interest in, the outcome of a trial … It may be doubted whether there are any ‘outsiders’ whose interest in the proceeding is so neutral that

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no description of it can be found which will rank … as a factor tending to bias. The most neutral observer is liable to have an interest in having his general outlook on the world … reinforced by what he has experienced and this can lead to dramatic error.

Coady quoted Harvard psychologist Gordon Allport who conducted studies of this phenomenon. Allport showed a group of subjects a drawing of several people on a train, including a white man and a black man having a heated argument. The drawing depicted the white man holding a weapon in his hand. Coady quotes Allport’s disturbing results that ‘After a brief viewing of the picture, about fifty percent of the subjects reported that the (weapon) was in the hand of the black man’. 86 Coady commented that ‘This seems to be a case where “neutral observers got things wrong” because of an … interest in conforming their particular experiences to their more general expectations’. Coady’s analysis was relevant to the testimony of Anthony Perks. On the night of David Hookes’s death, Perks heard a noise and went out on to his balcony where he stood in the dark, watching. Perks stated that he saw Micevic jog out of the group of brawlers and punch Hookes, who was walking to Padfield’s car. Perks saw Hookes fall backwards ‘like a plank’ and heard the ‘very horrible sound’ of his head hitting the ground. This of course made him a damaging witness to the defence team, so Terry Forrest brought out the much-used weapon of the defence: the role of alcohol. Perks had been watching cricket that evening, and had drunk somewhere between six and eight bottles of Corona as he watched. Forrest asked innocently ‘A Corona’s a full-strength beer isn’t it?’, fully anticipating Perks’s ‘Yes’. Forrest performed a nifty conversion: a bottle of Corona is one and a half pots of beer. After doing the maths, the six to eight Coronas had been converted into ‘ten to twelve’ pots, all consumed in three hours. Forrest mused, ‘Now obviously the

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consumption of that alcohol is going to have some effect on you’. After having established that this witness was also a drinker, Forrest moved in for the kill. There was an innocent-enough start, a polite query: ‘Are you a cricket fan?’ ‘Yes I am’, answered Perks, being led by the hand. ‘Did you know the cricketers by name and face?’ ‘Most, yes’, answered Perks. Next Forrest established that, while Perks was watching the fight, he was unaware that the man he saw being struck was David Hookes. But ‘by the time you made a statement to the police you were aware David Hookes had passed away?’ ‘Yes’, answered Perks. Forrest continued: ‘There had been widespread media coverage of the fact that David Hookes had died and the events leading up to it?’ ‘Yes’, answered Perks, taking the bait, but ‘I made sure I didn’t watch anything related to the case’. Forrest was incredulous: ‘Before you even contacted the police to offer your assistance you conscientiously avoided news reports of this event that you had witnessed?’ Continuing to make Forrest’s job easier, Perks answered, ‘Yes. The sound I heard when his head hit the ground left no doubt in my mind that this person was going to die’. ‘You conscientiously thereafter,’ continued Forrest on a roll, ‘having assumed from the moment you heard that sound that this man was going to die … avoided all media reports to preserve the integrity of your memory. Is that what you are telling this jury?’ ‘Yes’, answered Perks. Forrest led Perks to a position that went against basic human nature. It was implausible that someone who witnessed such a significant event, especially one involving a sportsman he admired, would avoid all media mention of it: on the contrary, most people would rush to read up on it. Perks had become a

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weak and untruthful witness but, like the shamed Robilotta, his flaws did not mean that he did not see what he claimed he had seen. Nevertheless, his credibility in the eyes of the jury was diminished. All the evidence was increasingly becoming a confusing mess. The ‘impartial witnesses’ were being exposed as flawed; the jury would have been able to make little sense of what was unfolding before them.

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CLOSING ADDRESSES

‘As all the evidence has now been concluded you’ll have the benefit today of the final address by Mr Elston and then tomorrow of a final address by Mr Forrest. I’m sure you’ll find both final addresses of great assistance to you in considering the issues which are raised in the evidence.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS


ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

I asked criminal barrister Tom Danos about the importance of a closing address. ‘It’s very hard to assess’, he answered thoughtfully. ‘There have been cases where I’ve had a sense that a closing address has made a difference, but you can never know. Really the evidence is the most important thing. You can have a great closing address but if the evidence goes against you, you won’t win the case.’ Terry Forrest’s closing address was a brilliant blend of psychology, emotion and sharp legal argument. In my view it should be handed to young law graduates as an example of a superb performance. Ray Elston is also highly regarded and, like Terry Forrest, skilled with legal argument. What set Forrest’s address apart was his understanding of human psychology and emotions.

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Imagine both Elston and Forrest as bartenders mixing a daiquiri. They would both carefully, accurately, follow the recipe, blend rum, lime juice and sugar, producing a daiquiri, but Forrest would add a few strawberries, a splash of peach schnapps and perhaps a little cocktail umbrella on the top, producing a magnificent although rather costly concoction. Terry Forrest opened himself up intimately to the jurors, revealing how the case had affected him, even in his sleep. ‘It’s not really a job for the nervous or the faint-hearted’, he said. Then, sharing his vulnerabilities, ‘If you practise you can hide your nerves. If you believe in your cause … your place within the system of justice, that helps but they’re still there. They wake you up at crazy hours of the night. You write on a pad that you have beside your bed … They’re nagging you because you’re appearing in something important. You’re appearing for a perfectly decent young man who depends on you to get it right’. He cleverly invited the jury into his emotional world. Only with their help could the justice system work. Only if they saw it the way he (as opposed to Ray Elston) saw it. Forrest then invited the jurors to be partners with him: ‘Like you I only get one crack at this and his future depends on it. David Hookes’s death was a tragedy. Don’t compound this tragedy by giving young Zdravko Micevic less than justice. As judges you bring your decency, worldliness, common sense, collective wisdom … you are his guarantee of a fair trial … his guarantee of justice’. The jurors in the trial of Zdravko Micevic had the following occupations: housekeeper, cashier, caravan builder, disc jockey, sales manager, project manager, graphic designer, store manager, production supervisor, spare parts salesperson, human resources manager and management assistant. Through Forrest’s words, in their capacity as jurors, this was probably the first time such a lofty status had been conferred on them. Forrest elevated the jurors to his professional equals: they too were highly successful QCs, they had great jurisprudential

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minds. He infused them with dignity, he elevated them as human beings. Forget the mundanity of your everyday existence: for two weeks you have a new life – you are no longer housekeepers, cashiers and caravan builders. Terry Forrest has made them visionaries, great legal thinkers. They were morally and intellectually up there with his Honour. ‘This young man is a worthy recipient of your justice’, he said to the jury. ‘People ask how he can get a fair trial. I’ve been asked it twenty times. He can because the system guarantees it. You guarantee it. You guarantee him your decency, your fairness, your experience of life, your capacity to evaluate. You will give him what certain sectors of the press have denied him … Your balanced, sane, rigidly intellectual appraisal. That young man has been demonised by some sections of the press. David Hookes has been sanctified. Neither of these images are real … Apply your decency and fairness.’ Vanity is one of the seven deadly sins that we all share, and Forrest was appealing to that secret part in them. You, jurors, like the judge, are learned and important. Of course Terry Forrest also worked through the legal arguments, spelling out why Micevic should be found to have acted in self-defence. ‘David Hookes swore drunkenly at the security guards until he was ejected’, said Forrest. ‘Security were completely outnumbered by big strong men. There was no opportunity for calm deliberation or reflection.’ In an excellent example of how the law can sometimes seem so absurd, Forrest said that ‘the blow Micevic struck wasn’t dangerous in the legal sense’. This is accurate if one wades, step by step, through the legal arguments and the technical definition of dangerous. But a man was dead! What could be more dangerous than an act leading to a death? Ray Elston, with his grey horsehair wig, from which his own grey hair protruded, loose jowly face and wire glasses had something of the appearance of television lawyer Rumpole. He had a calm, even, relaxed voice.

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Elston knew that a picture told a thousand words and had argued early on in the trial that the jury should be allowed to view the photographs of David Hookes’s injuries to supplement the descriptions of them. ‘Mere description is not sufficient to relate to the jury’s comprehension,’ he said. Elston carefully spelt everything out for the jury, in his plain, straight style. ‘Manslaughter, involving the death of another human, can obviously excite emotion but you are not asked to act on emotion … it is an intellectual process, don’t act out of sympathy. The prosecution bears the burden of proof – that is the prosecution has to establish the elements of the offence beyond reasonable doubt.’ Elston argued that: ‘Zdravko Micevic killed David Hookes by an unlawful and dangerous act and the act, the punch, was totally unjustified. The trial is about the blow that was struck to David Hookes which caused him to fall to the ground, smash his head and suffer fatal injuries. The punch was unlawful and done in a conscious voluntary way. There is no issue over that, it was not an accident, it was a deliberately landed punch’. Elston considered and rejected the notion that Micevic’s punch was in self-defence. ‘David Hookes became the object of pursuit and aggressive behaviour’, said Elston. ‘The cricketers had been enjoying a pleasant night until Micevic yelled, “Skol, bitch” and the animosity developed. There was no earthly reason for David Hookes to be abusive. Micevic put him in a headlock, and then came the threats and bad language. It may have looked like a brawl but only one person was hit.’ Elston continued. ‘The cricketers got caught up in a vortex of persistent aggression and couldn’t extricate themselves all the way down Cowderoy Street, and they were only loud because of the aggressive bouncers. If the bouncers would have gone back to the pub there would be no fight, it would have taken the oxygen out of the fire. Micevic punched David Hookes as pay-back for what happened in the hotel.’

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Elston then tackled the issue of witness credibility that Forrest had so successfully raised. ‘In considering the different truths,’ said Elston, ‘it is vital to consider the emotional intensity for those involved, and the traumatic effect on those people … We’re not talking about a bunch of cool collected individuals who have the ability to sit back and simply watch this unfold and record in their memories for future retelling. It doesn’t work this way … These people are intimately and physically involved, concerned for themselves, emotionally involved … It’s this level of physical involvement which adds a significant aspect to your ability to understand the accounts given to you by a number of people. ‘Hookes was their friend and team-mate and their lives changed forever when they heard the truly sickening sound of his head hitting the ground. When you consider all the circumstances,’ concluded Elston, ‘it is reasonable … to take in mind different perspectives.’ Like a cricket match, a court case is a type of competition where two sides compete to win. They both play their hardest and some are more skilled than others. In many, many different ways they ask who was the aggressor? In a cricket match, there are external factors at play such as the weather, player injuries and the mood of a crowd. There are also external factors in the trial: the media, the choice of counsel, the judge. But, unlike cricket, the stake in a trial – an individual’s liberty – is extraordinarily high.

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MIDDLE AGE AND MID-LIFE CRISIS

‘Anyone over thirty is sort of middle-aged by my definition.’ ‘Well you’ve insulted a good many of us in court here today.’ ROMAN ILGAUSKAS TRIAL OF

TO

TERRY FORREST,

DAY SIX OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Fear of our own mortality is a powerful and deeply confronting part of the human condition. It’s a fear that creeps up on us. In our youth we are oblivious to the notion of mortality, as adolescents we are invincible. Where it starts to really emerge is in middle age. The term ‘middle age’ conveys the inevitable: the beginning has passed, the next is the unspoken end. It is the stage in life when one confronts, usually for the first time, what Freud calls ‘the greatest of all struggles’. The historical term the Middle Ages refers to the period between 476 and 1500 CE. Modern historians are critical of the name Middle Ages as, during these thousand years, there were many advances made, scientific growth, exploration and artistic development. They argue that calling this period in history the ‘Middle Ages’ demeans it, lowers it to an ‘in-between’ time, an inferior period hovering between the ancient times we revere and

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the modern times we feel vain about. The same can be said of the term ‘middle-aged’ as it applies to humans. Our Western culture elevates youth and ‘middle-aged’ is hardly a term we embrace with relish. Unsurprisingly it has spawned the malaise ‘mid-life crisis’ which refers to a psychological melt-down experienced by many who are unable to cope when they reach this stage of their life. Of course the symptoms of this crisis vary, emerging for some in their personal relationships and others in their professional life. It is well documented that retirement hits elite athletes hard. Like fashion models and female actors, elite sportspeople have a limited shelf-life. In one article about the Australian cricket team, journalist Ben Hall asked ‘With an average age of 31 years – and key players like Shane Warne (36), Glenn McGrath (35) Justin Langer (35), Matthew Hayden (34) and Adam Gilchrist (34) – the big question is how soon before they call it a day?’87 These men in their thirties are being nudged out to pasture, and without great reserves of determination and confidence it would be easy for them to crumble. There are many examples of elite sportspeople plummeting into a terrible vortex of depression and despair after retirement stripped them of their identity. Author Gary Linnell called retirement from elite sport ‘the great black pit that awaits you, the great let down, the hang-over after the party’. He wrote of many former successful sportsmen who slumped in the vacuum caused by fame disappearing and mass adulation being lost. Linnell interviewed footballer Dwayne Russell. In the first year of his retirement Russell ‘sat at home watching repeats of Gilligan’s Island and wondering if he would ever truly be a real man again’. ‘Many [AFL] players suffered depression in the year they left the game’, wrote Linnell. ‘Carlton’s David Glascott just couldn’t let go. After retirement his depression was so severe he contemplated suicide.’ Linnell also wrote how champion footballer Fred Cook struggled to cope as his career drew to a close, turning to drugs to help him survive.88

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Gideon Haigh told of former Australian cricket captain and now commentator Richie Benaud. Benaud was approached by a 12-year-old cricket fan who asked the former champion, ‘Did you ever play cricket for Australia Mr Benaud?’ Benaud responded, ‘Now what do you do, laugh or cry? I did neither but merely said “Yes”.’89 The folk story ‘The Musicians of Bremen’ told of a dog, rooster, cat and donkey who had all grown old and were cast off by their owners because they were physically unable to do what they did when they were younger. The animals successfully reinvented themselves as musicians. David Hookes’s attitude would have placed him firmly within the fold of this quartet. Careerwise, David Hookes’s life was at its peak. Unlike so many of his peers he had made the transition from being a very good cricketer to a superb media personality and his media career allowed him to maintain his celebrity status. He was still very much in the public eye, entertaining with the flair and verve that had been characteristic of all his endeavours. He had managed the transition so seamlessly, so practically. As Allan Border said, ‘He made the transition from cricketer to cricket commentator with consummate ease’.90 His move to commenting and coaching reveals his deeply practical side, the ability to very cleverly manage his future. He had his dignity, his power, his belief in himself. He was still a man desired by women, he was trim and physically fit. Journalist Peter Roebuck wrote that ‘Retirement brought fresh challenges met with a bravado that gave no ground to the disquiet a lesser man might have felt. Before long Hookes was a regular on radio and television, informing and entertaining viewers by releasing opinions others reserve for the backroom’. But those close to Hookes have spoken about how, despite his career success, he too was battling with the demons that torment so many people, especially men, nearing their fiftieth birthday. Despite continuing to thrive professionally, David

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Hookes was struggling with approaching fifty. His brother Terry Cranage has said that ‘David was going through a lot of turmoil’. Other friends of his have said, ‘He was going through a very hard time in his life in terms of his mortality, facing fifty, dealing with a crisis in his life. He was clinging on to his youth for dear life. He was hanging out with all the young guys back in the cricket scene’. His friends have spoken about how part of the appeal for Hookes in his job as coach of the Victorian cricket team was that he spent a huge amount of time with the younger cricketers. This was no doubt in part because of his love of the sport and his desire to nurture the next generation of players. But there was also the desire to join their ranks. He was notorious for trying to match the young cricketers physically and do as many benchpresses as they did, as many push-ups. Trying to be like them. This struggle, not uncommonly, manifested itself in his personal life. He was entangled in a difficult network of relationships. What does it say about Hookes, a man in his late forties, spending the best part of his post-match celebration enmeshed in a sobbing, extremely drunk ‘young girl’s’ relationship tangle? Hookes, like anyone, loved being approved of and admired but, being a celebrity, was more used to receiving admiration than the rest of us. It is claimed that amongst his last words were the furious ‘You don’t know who I am’. Hookes’s friends spoke of his desperate juggling of women. What at first must have been an ego-boosting pleasure became a stressful curse. Perhaps not surprisingly, continual mention was made of old age and middle age throughout the trial. The defence lawyers were at pains to classify the cricketers as middle-aged. This was to establish the inappropriateness of their behaviour: mature, grown men drunk and arguing with security guards more than half their age. Tania Plumpton was asked, ‘It would be fair to describe the

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male contingent in your group … as middle-aged?’ ‘I suppose so’, she replied. Cricketer Robbie Cassell was asked, ‘Were there a number of middle-aged men in your group? Men in their forties?’ and to witness Craig Ravells ‘the people you saw swinging punches were of middle-aged appearance?’ Witness Jonathon Porter was asked ‘In the cricketing group, Mr Hookes, Mr Graf, Mr Phillips, Mr Shipperd and you Mr Porter are middle-aged?’ Interestingly, their own ageing seemed to be weighing on the minds of the legal team. During the proceedings cricket witness Wayne Phillips hurt his back and the defence lawyers joked, ‘The problems of middle age, Your Honour.’ Terry Forrest laughed about his own middle age, saying, ‘I’ll keep my wig on’, mentioning ‘those of us of a certain age’, and referring to the fact that one of the witnesses ‘has reached middle age these days like a lot of us’. Even Justice Cummins referred to his age. While the jury were out of the court room he joked about the faulty electricity in the Court, saying ‘Counsel, due to the age of the Court – not the age of the judge – the place is slowly grinding to a halt’. These clever legal men were around the same age as the cricketers. In their educated, intelligent way, within the context of their legal skills, perhaps the same demons lurk beneath their very polished exteriors.

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RACE

‘I just said “Miss-e-vick” is that the correct pronunciation?’ ‘I think it is pronounced “Mitch-e-vitch”. He said that in the interview.’ ‘Micevic. Thank you. We’ll follow the pronunciation that he used.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS TRIAL OF

TO

TERRY FORREST,

DAY ONE OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Race was an unspoken presence in the incident, the elephant in the corner everyone pretended was invisible. To state it plainly, all the cricketers involved had the broadest of Australian accents and the bouncers were all from migrant backgrounds. There was something very symbolic about the two battling teams coming from such different worlds. Journalist Kathy Legge commented on the race element of the case, writing that The … cricketers who gathered with Hookes that hot January night had little in common with the younger men from Melbourne’s outlying Western suburbs who were working as bouncers. Jimmy, Willy, Zdravko, the three security officers who were called to give evidence in court, are migrant sons.

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Jimmy is Italian, Willy a Maori and Zdravko is Serbian. They follow soccer and rugby. They are known by Christian names that roll off the tongue more easily than Demetriou, Niumata and Micevic.

The only place discussion of race was very much out of the closet was in the hate mail sent to Micevic, most commonly saying ‘wog’ and ‘go back to where you came from’. ‘You’re Dead Wog’ was sprayed on a street in Micevic’s home suburb. There was clearly a link in the haters’ minds between Micevic’s ethnicity and his crime. Coming from such a different world, none of the bouncers knew who they were dealing with. Micevic stated, ‘I’m not a big cricket fan, I didn’t know any of the group, I didn’t know they were cricketers’. Similarly, security guard Demetris Demiteriou said that he didn’t know who any of the cricketers were. Throughout the trial security guard Willy Taulelei Niumata was called the ‘Pacific Islander,’ ‘the large man from the Pacific Islands,’ and the ‘rather large gentleman from the Pacific Islands’. Lucas Caciolo was called the small Italian guy. There was also the constant reference to the sad anglicising of names which were deemed too difficult to pronounce. Zdravko Micevic was called ‘Vic’. Demetris Demetriou ‘is known as Jim’. Of course, like most cultures, Australians have a penchant for nicknames. Thomas becomes Thommo, for example, Matthew becomes Matt. But an abbreviation is entirely different to an anglicisation: one is about affection, familiarity and convenience and the other about cultural adaptation, integration and loss. An article I had recently read described a panel of men convened for a research piece exploring male identity. Each panellist had to write a brief description of themselves. Akmal Saleh’s was as follows: ‘Akmal Saleh whose name is often mispronounced and misspelled called himself Peter so he could work in RSL clubs’.91 Sports historian Richard Cashman wrote that, as Australia becomes more multicultural, cricket has ‘suffered from its

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Anglicist image’ and has drawn few players from non-English speaking backgrounds. While footballers have been drawn from a variety of cultural backgrounds, there has been only a handful of non Anglo-Celtic players representing Australia in cricket. This includes Len Durtanovich, who was on Hookes’s first Ashes tour in 1977. Len Durtanovich anglicised his name to Len Pascoe early in his career. ‘If cricket wishes to remain a national game,’ said Cashman, it is essential that it appeals to all Australians and that it reinvents itself in a form more appropriate for … those from non-English speaking backgrounds. Otherwise there is a danger that in time cricket will become an ‘ethnic’ sport, the game of Anglo-Celtic … Australians.92

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BLEEDING IN PUBLIC

‘You can see on that diagram an indication as to where blood has been located?’ ‘Yes.’ RAY ELSTON TRIAL OF

TO

CHRISTINE PADFIELD,

DAY FOUR OF THE

ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

In Cowderoy Street, after being struck by Micevic, David Hookes spilt blood, surrounded by his friends and fellow cricketers. This was the second time he very publicly bled. The first was during the 1977 Supertest at the Sydney Showground when Australia was playing the West Indies. It was the worst injury of Hookes’s career, and the whole incident was televised. Fast bowler Andy Roberts bounced the ball along the pitch. Hookes swung at it but the ball flew up and smashed into the left-hand side of his jaw. Hookes spun, swayed, then fell to his knees. He struggled to his feet then fell once again and curled up on the pitch clutching his face. Team-mates rushed to his side, his head was wrapped in a towel and he was helped off the field, spitting blood. A piece of Hookes’s jaw bone was later found in the bloodied mess of the towel. As he staggered away the voice-over of the commentator said in sombre tones, ‘He’s in trouble’.

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Cricketer Greg Chappell said at the time ‘I have no doubt that psychologically Hookes’s injury handicapped him for a long time. He was a confidence player and suddenly his confidence was destroyed.’93 With both the punch from Micevic and the 1977 blow to Hookes’s jaw, the sound of the terrible injury made a huge impact on those present. When he broke his jaw several players reported that a ‘horrible sound’ had emanated from Hookes’s face as the round missile struck. Veteran cricket commentator Richie Benaud referred to the terrible noise.94 Future Australian captain Steve Waugh, then aged twelve, who was watching that day, spoke about hearing the chilling noise of the ball smash against Hookes’s jawbone, and said that he was deeply affected by seeing and hearing the horrible injury.95 The ambulance was slow to arrive, so Kerry Packer drove David Hookes to hospital, speeding in his Jaguar, horn blaring the whole way, ignoring red lights. Hookes’s jaw was wired together and he had to live on liquids for weeks. He described being overcome by the delectable aroma of a Christmas roast and being so desperate to taste it that he vitamised the roast, intending to sip it through a straw. Unfortunately, once pulped the roast looked terrible and he just tossed it away. So horrendous were Hookes’s injuries that soon after the fateful ball from Andy Roberts, protective helmets were introduced for all players to avoid the risk of such injuries reoccurring. Journalist Peter Roebuck wrote ‘After his jaw broke Hookes was never quite the same again … Suddenly he was not so much the rising champion as the flawed hero whose talents allowed him to fly now and again but not soar in the expected way’.96 Hookes has said that during the second World Series Cricket season he played very, very badly because ‘I just kept having visions of getting hit by Andy Roberts again. I’d be standing at the non-striker’s end and would see myself getting hit all over again. Soon after I’d get out, no matter what I did to try to stop it. I strove to blot out the vision but it wouldn’t go away’.97

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Incredibly for a man who seemed as opposite of New Age as a man could possibly be, he managed to overcome this trauma by the very New Age technique of creative visualisation. He saw a hypnotherapist who taught him to visualise sitting in his favourite spot in the Adelaide Hills and looking inside a dark black box, focusing on the ‘empty nothingness’ it contained. This strategy was highly successful for Hookes, who proudly recounted the praise of his hypnotherapist who called him ‘an exceptional patient’. Hookes used this creative visualisation throughout his career and wrote that, fifteen years later, playing club cricket, he would still occasionally need to visualise inside the dark box on the Adelaide Hills. Reading this I recalled Robyn Hookes’s reference to David Hookes as ‘my man of surprises’.98 Although she was referring to a surprise party Hookes had organised for her fiftieth birthday I though that the tag was apt as a general description of Hookes, a surprising and complex man.

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DAVID HOOKES’S BODY

‘Look at the deceased’s upper right lip.’ MICHAEL BURKE,

DAY EIGHT OF THE TRIAL OF

ZDRAVKO

MICEVIC

In the Melbourne office of the radio station 3AW, up the flight of stairs that David Hookes climbed each week on the way to present his radio program, there was a large and elegant piece of art on the wall. There were three images of David Hookes printed onto a thin rectangular sheet of metal. The images were David Hookes batting, poised after a cricket victory and as a media commentator wearing his earphones. The sheet of metal was covered in rows of holes. The holes were of varying size, but all quite small and the effect was understated and beautiful. I looked at the perforated David Hookes, admiring the clever and tasteful way these everyday images were turned into striking art. Under the picture was a small shiny plaque, saying ‘Donated by the Locker Group.’ All reports following David Hookes’s death contained summaries of his impressive sporting achievements and media career. There had also been so many heartfelt words written. Journalist Peter Roebuck’s view seemed to reflect the consensus that:

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In his youth he was handsome, loud, entertaining. Girls flittered around him, appreciating his brown open face, blond locks and sense of fun. They could tell he was slightly dangerous company and they were right. Men also enjoyed his company, the noise around the bar, the talk of sport … Always Hookes was in the thick of it. He was not a man for reflection. Time was too short. Life was to be lived.99

There were many references made to Hookes’s ‘innocence’, which was something that I had also felt while reading about him. In his autobiography, he listed with great excitement the amount of money he was paid each year by Packer, including the advances. Sweetly innocent is the best way to describe his open, uninhibited joy at earning substantial money. He described being handed a cheque and said ‘I felt like a millionaire when I pulled it out of my pocket and said [to ex-wife Roxanne Hewitt], “Have a look at this”.’ He described so charmingly his participation in the Centenary Test which was his first Test match. He had a ‘wow, gee whiz, I can’t believe I’m in this company’ excitement, a babe-in-thewoods’ first excursion to the big smoke. He was twenty-one years old and arrived at the Melbourne Hilton hotel. I was more naive and gullible than I fancied at the time. I had to ask Gary Gilmour how to operate the shower in my bathroom because I didn’t know that you had to lift the button on top of the tap in the bath. Next day Gilmour had me believing I must not tread on the tramlines … because they were live and I’d get a nasty shock or even be electrocuted if the current was flowing strongly enough … The big plush foyer of the Hilton seemed like the centre of the universe. Every time you … turned around there was something to be enthusiastic about as you engaged in a spot of ‘pick-the-legends’ ogling … It meant a lot to me because I fancied myself as a student of the game and its rich history, having devoured cricket books from just about my earliest reading days. As a kid too my dreams were about either being late for a cricket game or of hitting fours and sixes for Australia..100

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I had read and heard so many words about Hookes since his death but had seen relatively few pictures. I decided to spend an afternoon at my local library browsing through books containing photographs of Hookes. I gathered a huge pile of sports books and journals, spread them on the floor around me, and began flicking. As I looked I remembered when a friend of mine suffering from depression consulted a psychologist specialising in photo-reading. My friend was asked to bring in several photographs of her family for the psychologist to read and use as the basis for his analysis. At the time I protested to my friend: what quackery, how ridiculous, please get some proper help. That afternoon, staring at David Hookes I realised just how telling photographs can be. Hookes was so very photogenic. As a teenager he looked the essence of swaggering confidence. Shaggy head of blonde hair, dimples, a small well-shaped nose, thick bushy eyebrows, blue eyes meeting the gaze of the camera with cheeky good nature. And those teeth, those incredible gleaming white teeth. Teeth can often be a class indicator – it costs a great deal of money to have crooked teeth straightened – but Hookes had the orthodontically perfect smile of a grammar school boy that belied his workingclass roots. His star appeal was so obvious – he literally had a goldenness to him. In a photograph of Hookes as a grinning, dimpled school boy in his footy jumper as ‘Vice-Captain of the Underdale High School’s under-thirteen football team’ his arms were crossed, and he already had that confident, cocky grin staring straight at the camera, laughingly saying to the world ‘I can take you on’. Already exuding that quality of being so comfortable in his skin. He wore his cricket uniform with such ease. Running on the beach, he was a young Adonis. Arm around his team-mates, beer in hand he was an Aussie poster boy, healthy and exuberant. As a young man he dashingly sprouted the fashion of the day – a moustache or a beard or both. As a man in his late forties, he was still

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trim and sporty looking, and that cocky grin had barely changed. For me the photographs were illuminating; Hookes’s X-factor, the basis of his celebrity was there, laid in front of me on the library floor. Although he no doubt had a sharp and clever brain, it was more instantly obvious that Hookes radiated great physical vitality, he was someone whose co-ordinated sporty use of his body came as naturally to him as breathing. Perhaps this is why the contrast between the vibrant living Hookes and the trial’s descriptions of the deceased Hookes was so horrendous. Reports were presented by Maria Pircone, a senior forensic toxicologist, and Dr Michael Burke, the forensic pathologist who performed the autopsy on David Hookes and identified the cause of death as head injury. Reading these reports was an exercise in metaphysics, a harsh reminder that underneath it all we are just blood and bones. Hookes’s life had ended, his spirit had moved on, and the reports were so clinical it was as if the Court was considering the damage to a faulty chair, rather than someone who had so recently been leading a rich and complex life of passion, excitement and energy. Dr Burke saw evidence of bruising on the brain due to impact: as the impact was on the back of the head the brain was forced forward, striking the base of the skull. Hearing the brain reduced to a bouncing mass, being described in physical terms the way one would describe a piece of plasticine must surely make even the most sceptical believe in a soul existing beyond the physical. ‘Normally when a person is knocked out the neurons or the electrical circuitry in the brain is disrupted, then when they regain consciousness it is restored?’ Terry Forrest asked Burke. ‘Yes,’ Burke replied. ‘Can alcohol in significant quantities inhibit restoration of the original electrical function within the brain?’ ‘Yes,’ Burke answered, ‘I believe it does’. Senior toxicologist Pircone had examined Hookes’s serum

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and plasma, which are components of the blood cells. She had found alcohol in his serum amounting to the level 0.14 per cent, which is just under three times the legal limit to drive a car. David Hookes’s soul had journeyed to its next life and the earthly body left behind was broken down into its most basic components: plasma, serum. There was Hookes splayed on the table, his cells removed, the pathologist and the toxicologist working their way through his body. Burke described Hookes as a ‘well-nourished adult Caucasian male’. The term ‘well-nourished’ made me jolt: in its clinical context it was a reference to all the barbecues he’d laughed at, pies eaten cheering at the footy, pub dinners shared with friends and home-cooked meals served to him with love. All these led to a ‘well-nourished’ body being scrutinised on the cold metal table by a forensic pathologist. Burke had examined David Hookes’s teeth and found ‘all teeth were intact, and no loose or chipped teeth were evident’. Those perfect gleaming white teeth remained perfect right to the very end. Burke also reported on Hookes’s drinking, saying ‘The amount of alcohol David Hookes drank on the night he was punched may have affected his ability to break the fall that caused his death … The alcohol may have slowed Hookes’s reaction to the punch, causing him to fall and hit his head on the ground. The doctor said the alcohol could have affected Hookes’s breathing and heartbeat, which may have lessened his chance of survival … The blow that landed on Hookes’s right cheek caused some bruising but was classified as “mild to moderate”.’ He explained that an intoxicated person had impaired balance and, if struck, was more likely to lose their balance and fall over. They had a diminished capacity to put their arms out to break their fall. This was what Micevic’s solicitor Brian Rolfe had referred to at our meeting as a ‘bar-stool injury’.

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Day eight of the trial saw Justice Cummins and counsel examine photographs of David Hookes’s injuries. In life Hookes was photographed: so often photographs of his princely face had been hung on so many walls, adorned sports cards, newspapers, magazines and posters. The cover of the 1977 Australian Cricket magazine has a huge close-up of Hookes under the heading ‘Heart-Throb Hookes’ written in yellow letters. These photographs that the legal teams were analysing on day eight of the trial were the last time he was ever photographed, in death, so frighteningly damaged. In minute detail they examine his lips, his skin, his eyes, all of which had been scrutinised so often in life and were now being scrutinised so disturbingly in death. Marcus Stacey was the paramedic on duty that dreadful night. He described how, when he had arrived, Hookes was pulseless, not breathing, and bleeding from the nose and mouth. He told the Court about the emergency procedures he had administered. It was easy to visualise the panicked attempts to clutch on to the last morsel of life before it slipped away forever. A large group had stood around watching Stacey with their hearts in their throats and prayers on their lips. Stacey had cleared Hookes’s airways, administered intravenous treatment and started fluid therapy. He had found there was cardiac rhythm – some electrical activity – although the heart was not beating. Soon the fluid therapy re-established a heartbeat, although Hookes was unable to breath for himself. He was moved to the ambulance and taken to the Alfred Hospital. Most chilling was witness Shaun Graf’s observation that ‘I was close enough to see his eyes. He was completely out as he hit the deck’.

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MEN IN WHITE

‘He saw a man in a white T-shirt punch another man.’ RAY ELSTON,


ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

It is possible to glean so much knowledge about a person without ever having met them. Again and again the same words kept coming up to describe Micevic and Hookes: Micevic was ‘shy,’ Hookes was a ‘larrikin’. Micevic was ‘humble and in the background,’ Hookes was ‘flamboyant and swashbuckling’. These words, these personalities were direct opposites of each other: the first a quiet introvert, the second a gregarious extrovert. Hookes was as blond and Australian as one could be. Micevic hadn’t been in Australia for long, a migrant who had only recently fled a wartorn country. Summing up David Hookes, journalist Peter Roebuck wrote: Hookes was not a saint and did not pretend to be. He was not especially enlightened and did not suppose otherwise. But he was straightforward and without malice and he cared about the young cricketers around him … Always he seemed young, a beer in hand, an opinion in his mouth, and a laugh upon his face … It was no surprise that he stayed in the game after his playing days were over, no surprise that he was still drinking and talking … on the night his life ended.101

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Danush and Jelena said of Zdravko Micevic: ‘He is nice, very nice, but rarely spoke unless he was spoken to. He likes watching and being quiet rather than leading’. David Hookes spent so much time in the prime of his career wearing his cricket whites. His last moment on Earth was also in white. White was also worn by the man who caused his death. The tragedy of these two polar opposites, the men in white, fighting in the darkness on a hot night in January.

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REACHING THE END

‘On Thursday you will retire to consider your verdict. Thank you very much.’ JUSTICE CUMMINS


ZDRAVKO MICEVIC

Towards the conclusion of working on this book I visited my dear friend Adolek Kohn. I have known Adolek and his warm, exuberant wife Marycia all my life, as they were my late grandmother’s best friends. Adolek is eighty-five years old and had survived Nazi Germany where he was imprisoned in the Auschwitz death camp. He initially came from a very large family in the Polish town of Lodz. He was taken from Lodz to Auschwitz along with 100 relatives including his mother, his brothers and sisters, aunts and cousins. All were killed except Adolek, one sister and one brother. He has endured starvation and has witnessed and experienced great cruelty. To meet Adolek one is instantly struck by his sense of humour, good cheer and enthusiastic embracing of life. In his eighties he became a computer whiz, corresponding on the Internet with friends and family overseas. He has an incredible interest in people and he and Marycia, who was also in Auschwitz, are perhaps the most sociable people I have ever met,

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regularly throwing lavish parties with their trade-mark superb food and bon vivant atmosphere. I wanted to ask Adolek about how he managed to move on after all he had been through. Did it affect his view of humanity? Was he able to forgive? What do we all owe each other? One thing that has struck me in my experience of people who had been in the Holocaust was the stories of humanity found in the degradation and cruelty. I was hoping to distil something from Adolek about how ordinary people can survive when their lives are turned upside down by a tragedy. ‘I believe in forgiveness, not to hang on to hatred’, he said. ‘I’ll never forget any of it but I can forgive. I have no bitterness. After the war I met the director of the camp I was in. Whilst I was in there I hated him but after the war I looked at him and saw he was just another person.’ As I was leaving, Adolek showed me a photograph of longgone loved ones. He indicated how he had wished for them to be with him throughout his life. Driving home, I reflected that it was a wish that everyone at some stage of their lives will probably make. Some of us will make that wish regarding someone who has been fortunate enough to complete the full life cycle: babyhood, childhood, adolescence, adulthood, old age. Others mourn for those lost prematurely, experiencing some but not all of these stages. Each death is unique and painful and brings out the best and the worst in us all.

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NOTES

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Nick Whittock, Covers, Cordite Press Inc., 2004. David Hookes Foundation, Remembering Hookesy, Swan Sport, 2004, p. 9. Playing God The Rise and Fall of Gary Ablet, HarperCollins, 2003, p. 9. ‘Australians in Sport’ in Wray Vamplew and Brian Stoddart (eds), Sports History in Australia, Cambridge University Press, 1994, pp. 12–13. Brett Hutchins, Don Bradman Challenging the Myth, Cambridge University Press, 2002, pp. 2–3. ‘Love and Grief in a Savage Society’, TWN Online, <www.twnside.org.sg/title/love-cn.htm>, accessed 2 May 2005. Patrick West, Conspicuous Compassion, Civitas, 2004, p. 3. ‘Mourning Sickness for Celebrities is Just Not Cricket’, Sydney Morning Herald, 19 January 2005. ‘The Mourning After’, Listener Magazine, August 1998, p. 22. Castles, ‘Mourning Sickness for Celebrities’. Remembering Hookesy, p. 96. John Schwartz, Metro Magazine, 10 March 2004. Sunday Mail (Adelaide), 25 January 2004, p. 60. Phil Wilkins, ‘Cellar to Penthouse’ in Remembering Hookesy, p. 103. Media Watch ABC television, presented by David Marr, 9 February 2004. Ray Fewings, Radio 5DN (Adelaide), 19 January 2004, quoted in ibid. Media Watch, ibid. Alan Jones, Today, Channel 9, 21 January 2004, quoted in ibid. John Bryson, Evil Angels, Viking Press, 1985. Ibid., p. 224. Quoted in Herald Sun (Melbourne), 13 September 2005. Don Watson, Death Sentence, Random House Australia, 2003, p. 138. Ibid., p. 65. Peter Wilmoth, Up Close, Pan Macmillan Australia, 2005, p. 299. Ibid., pp. 293–4.

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Notes to pages 35–85

26 Jon Faine, A. N. Smith Memorial Lecture, University of Melbourne, 1 April 2003. 27 The Age is Victoria’s broadsheet newspaper and is less sensationalist than its tabloid rival, the Herald Sun. Generally speaking, the Age is regarded as appealing to a more professional readership than the Herald Sun. 28 M. R. Chesterman, Janet B. L. Chan and Shelley Hampton, Managing Prejudicial Publicity, Justice Research Centre, Law and Justice Foundation of New South Wales, 2001. 29 Malcolm Knox, Secrets of the Jury Room, Random House Australia, 2005. 30 For example, his address was published in the Daily Telegraph (Sydney), Age (Melbourne), Herald Sun (Melbourne) and the Newcastle Herald. 31 Mark Pearson, The Journalist’s Guide to Media Law, Allen and Unwin, 1997, p. 80. 32 Jamie Berry was the only one named by the media watchdog website crikey.com as having revealed Micevic’s address. This inaccurately implied that he was the only one who had done so. 33 Derryn Hinch, The Fall and Rise of Derryn Hinch, Hardie Grant Books, 2004, p. 144. 34 Ibid., pp. 152–8. 35 ‘In the Midnight Hour’, Australian Story, ABC television, 9 May 2005. 36 Ibid. 37 Herald Sun (Melbourne), 28 March 2001. 38 Jack Lule, Daily News, Eternal Stories: The Mythological Role of Journalism, Guilford Press, 2001. 39 Ibid., p. 19. 40 Peter Roebuck, It Takes All Sorts, Allen and Unwin, 2005, p. 240. 41 Speech at the Official Launch of the David Hookes Organ Donation Foundation. 42 Lule, Daily News, Eternal Stories, p. 54. 43 ‘In Ancient Myths and Modern Man Joseph Henderson notes the blend of victims and heroes.’ Quoted in ibid., pp. 43–4. 44 Hutchins, Don Bradman, p. 129. 45 Denis Brien, ‘Barefoot but Oh Boy’ in Remembering Hookesy, p. 33. 46 ‘In the Midnight Hour’. 47 Ibid. 48 Ibid. 49 Knox, Secrets of the Jury Room, p. 68. 50 Ibid., p. 123. 51 The Wales-Kings were a couple who were murdered by their adult son. Many speculated that the huge amount of publicity the case attracted was because the victims were very wealthy, upper-class people and because of the family ties. 52 The Age reported that his legal fees amounted to more than $100 000. 53 Richard Cashman, ‘Cricket’ in Vamplew and Stoddart (eds), Sport in Australia, p. 58. 54 Brian Stoddart, ‘Reflections Past and Present’ in ibid., pp. 271–5. 55 After Dinner Speech by Bob Hawke, Crusaders Dinner, Leonda Restaurant, 1 March 1985.

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56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93

233

Gideon Haigh, The Cricket War, Text Publishing, 1993. Ibid., p. 57, and ‘David, a Goliath’, The Bulletin, 28 January 2004. Paul Barry, ‘High Rolling Magnate with a Common Touch’, Australian, p. 5. David Hookes and Alan Shiell, Hookesy, ABC Books, 1993, p. 5. Gerard Healy, ‘Welcome to Meltdown’ in Remembering Hookesy, p. 151. Enough Rope with Andrew Denton, ABC television. ‘Death by Firing Squad: A Lonely, Secret Ending’, Age, 20 April 2005, p. 4. Age, 14 September 2005. Thomas Rose, ‘No Alcohol Promotions PCB’, 19 July 2005, Cricket Online, <www.cricket-online.org> accessed 24 December 2005. Lorna Edwards and Bridie Smith, ‘Booze Booze Everywhere and More than a Few Drops to Drink’, Age (Melbourne), 15 December 2005. Ibid., Editorial, Age, 24 September 2005. For instance, ‘In some events advertising by tobacco companies has reached the point of saturation’. Quit Victoria Publication, 1995. Quit Victoria Publication 1995, p. 5. Grogwatch, Edition 45, 2005. Hookes and Shiell, Hookesy, p. 5. Ian Chappell, ‘Magic and Mayhem’ in Remembering Hookesy, p. 44; Allan Border, ‘Now This is the Plan’ in Remembering Hookesy, p. 118. AIS Nutrition Fact Sheet, ‘Alcohol and Australian Sport’, 2004. Vikram Seth, Two Lives, Time Warner Books, 2005. Quoted in Knox, Secrets of the Jury Room, p. 194. Miranda Devine, ‘Boozers and Bouncers a Lethal Mix’, Sydney Morning Herald, 15 September 2005, p. 11. ‘In the Midnight Hour’. Ibid. Ibid. ‘Shipperd helps transform underachieving Vics’, Age, 10 March 2004. Darren Lehmann, Worth the Wait, an Autobiography, Hardie Grant Books, 2005, p. 234. Helen Garner, Joe Cinque’s Consolation, Picador, 2004, p. 159. Remembering Hookesy, p. 204. David Raggat played football with David Hookes in the West Torrens Under-19s. Chris Johnston ‘I’ll Have What He’s Having’, Sydney Morning Herald, 11 February 2006. Knox, Secrets of the Jury Room, p. 190. Tony Coady, Testimony, Oxford University Press, 1992, p. 205. Ben Hall, ‘Changing of the Guard’, Virgin In-flight magazine, December 2005. Linnell, Playing God. Gideon Haigh, Game for Anything, Black Inc., 2004, p. 58. Border, ‘Now this is the Plan’, p. 121. Libby Gorr, ‘Talk Like a Man’, Sunday Life (magazine supplement), Age, 13 November 2005, p.21. Cashman, ‘Cricket’, pp. 73, 76. Hookes and Shiell, Hookesy, p. 46.

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94 Richie Benaud, ‘Child of the Revolution’ in Remembering Hookesy, p. 78. 95 Cricket in the 80s – Rookies, Rebels and Renaissance, ABC Productions. 96 Roebuck, It Takes All Sorts, p. 242. 97 Hookes and Shiell, Hookesy, p. 51. 98 Remembering Hookesy, p. 227. 99 Roebuck, It Takes All Sorts, p. 241. 100 Hookes and Shiell, Hookesy, p. 26. 101 Roebuck, It Takes All Sorts, p. 241.

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