The Godfather, Life of Brian Burke (former premier of Western Australia)

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THE GODFATHER

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THE GODFATHER THE LIFE OF BRIAN BURKE QUENTIN BERESFORD

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First published in 2008 Copyright © Quentin Beresford 2008 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218 Email: [email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: Beresford, Quentin, 1954– The godfather: the life of Brian Burke/Quentin Beresford. 9781741755565 (pbk.) Includes index. Bibliography. Burke, Brian, 1947– Australian Labor Party. Western Australian Branch – History. Criminals – Western Australia – Biography. Premiers – Western Australia – Biography. Political corruption – Western Australia. Western Australia – Politics and government – 1976–1990. 994.10692 Set in 11/16 pt Caslon by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements Introduction 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Son of Labor The making of a political operator In the shadow of Huey Long The fixer Crony capitalism: Burke and WA Inc The rise and fall of an ambassador On trial Back from the brink Return of the Godfather An uncertain future

Epilogue Notes Bibliography Index

vii xi 1 22 47 73 95 138 162 198 215 243 253 255 277 284

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To Marilyn and my family scattered across Australia

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

THIS BOOK HAS TAKEN A SUPPORTIVE community to produce. Heading this list are those who agreed to be interviewed. It was not an easy decision for some, given the controversial nature of the subject matter. The contribution of people’s memories, insights and first-hand observations have added a layer of intimacy to the events in the book that could not be gained simply from the public record. I thank the following: Les Ayton, Kim Beazley, Malcolm [Mal] Bryce, Peter Clough, Colleen Eagan, Peter Gormon, Gerard Gormon, John Halden, Bob Kucera, Margot Lang, Dr Carmen Lawrence, Bevan Lawrence, Jim McGinty, Barry MacKinnon, Paul Murray, Brian Peachey, Phillip Pendal, Joseph Poprzeczny, John Quigley, Susanne Roberts, Martin Saxon, Beth Schultz, Tom Stephens, Arthur Tonkin, Michael Thorn, Tim Treadgold, Judyth Watson. It should be remembered that several of these interviewees had distinguished careers serving the public in the government led by Brian Burke and were uninvolved in the events surrounding his WA Inc activities. Several of those interviewed deserve special mention. Mal Bryce, John Quigley and Martin Saxon made themselves available for repeated interviews, extending over many months. In different ways, each played vii

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a central role in the events discussed in this book and, therefore, their participation has added depth to the account. I was very fortunate, too, that Joe Poprzeczny persisted over many months in helping me draw out the implications of Burke’s Marist Brothers education and the half forgotten idea of distributism. Some people agreed to be interviewed only on the basis of anonymity. I extend my thanks to them. I appreciate the generosity of those people who gave me access to their own files on the politics of the period. Ready access to Martin Saxon’s extensive and award-winning journalism from the 1980s and early 1990s was invaluable. Saxon’s career reminds us of the crucial role investigative journalism plays in a democracy. Bevan Lawrence, who led an important public movement calling for a Royal Commission into WA Inc, had assiduously collected a wide range of newspaper material to which he gave me access and this added greatly to the depth of my knowledge of the WA Inc era. Also very helpful was Dr Harry Phillips’ extensive writings on Western Australian politics in his role as one of the state’s most respected political scientists. I am conscious of how much I have been able to draw on the work of individual journalists who have written about Burke over the years. I have acknowledged my debt to these people in the bibliography. I was also fortunate in having a number of people prepared to read and comment on the manuscript. I am very grateful for those people who reviewed the manuscript for the publishers. Dr Carmen Lawrence, Phillip Pendal and Dr Harry Phillips offered valuable comments. Martin Saxon was also generous with his time in reading and commenting on the draft. However, the reviewers are not responsible for matters of fact or interpretation: the author naturally takes responsibility for the finished product. Edith Cowan University has supported my research career over fifteen years with grants and study leave. On this project, in particular, I would like to thank several people who are now no longer at ECU: Professor Patrick Garnett, Dr Peter Bedford and Dr Sherry Saggers. viii

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thankfully Mr Bill Noble is still providing great administrative support at the university as he did for me on this project. My publisher, Allen & Unwin, has my gratitude for its enthusiasm and for providing such a range of professional expertise. It has been a delight to work with Elizabeth Weiss, Rebecca Kaiser, Kelly Fagan, Elizabeth Croger, Ann Lennox, Andrew Hawkins and the rest of the team. I owe a great debt of gratitude to my research assistant, Bianca McKinney. Her energy and skill at locating diverse sources of information never ceased to amaze me and the information she turned up added greatly to the account of Burke’s life. I would like to thank Dr Chris Sheil for pointing out to me the value of historian Marc Bloch’s writings on patronage and for providing a dialogue on this vital link to Burke’s career, as well as discussing with me Machiavelli’s ideas. I never lose sight of the support given by my family to my writing projects. As the cliché goes, writing is a solitary pastime. I am fortunate that my adult children show great interest in these projects and tolerate my absences more than they should have to: my thanks and love to Michelle and William and to my son-in-law, Des, and grandson, Jacob. In Sydney, Matthew, Karen and Bianca are never far from our thoughts. The dedication at the beginning of this book is the smallest token of my appreciation for the contribution my wife Marilyn made not only to this project, but extending in so many ways over the quarter century of our married life. In this, as in past projects, I have been blessed in having the benefits of her dialogue about the issues and her editorial eye for narrative. A note on methodology: I made an approach to Brian Burke regarding his possible involvement in this project. After a short discussion he passed me on to his daughter, Sarah, with whom I had an extended and pleasant conversation. We discussed an offer I made to her father for an interview that would be ix

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included in the book as an extended epilogue in which he would have an opportunity to respond to specific issues raised by his career. I also offered to follow up on any contacts the family passed onto me as possible people to interview. However, the family did not proceed with these offers. Given the requests of anonymity, I have de-identified most interview material unless specific approval was given to be named as a source and/or the use of a name is in some way crucial to the text. However, everybody interviewed did have direct contact with the events covered in this book and all material has gone through an extensive process of verification. In nearly all cases, information which is not attributed complements the public record. The term ‘Godfather’ has for years had several meanings in everyday language. Its use in the title of this book has been taken from references on the public record to Burke operating as a controlling figure in the Labor Party—a man enthralled by power, capable of attracting loyalists of near total devotion and able to directly influence people’s careers. In this context, Burke has, on more than one occasion, been referred to as a ‘Godfather’ figure in the Labor Party. The term carries no other inferences.

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INTRODUCTION

ON 6 NOVEMBER 2006 BRIAN BURKE, former premier of Western Australia, manoeuvred his ample frame out of the double glass doors of the building housing the state’s powerful Corruption and Crime Commission to a waiting media frenzy. The scene was bristling with contrasts. Sporting a panama hat and dark glasses, the burly ‘hard man’ of ALP politics, who had been jailed twice since leaving office, clutched his wife’s hand in a tight, childlike, chest-high grip. The grilling he had just undergone over his nefarious lobbying activities did not suggest the respectable business consultant he professed to be. Yet during this appearance, and on succeeding days, accounts of influence peddling at the heart of government involving a network of compliant and often singularly devoted ministers, backbenchers and local councillors revealed that Brian Burke had provided a uniquely successful service. For his clients in the business world, including some of the wealthiest in the nation, Brian could pull strings, get the best outcome, deliver on access—and it was all done discreetly, secretly. For the six years between 2000 and 2006, Burke acted as a mole for business in the very bowels of government in the most resource-rich state in the nation at the height of its economic prosperity. xi

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In the weeks that followed his first appearance before the Corruption and Crime Commission, the story of his extraordinary prowess as a lobbyist—and the unconventional methods he often used—gradually smeared a number of state and federal Liberal and Labor politicians. While Burke became convenient ammunition in the endless rounds of combat in Canberra, journalist Matt Price summed up public reaction to the extraordinary revelations emanating from the Corruption and Crime Commission when he wrote: ‘All around Australia people are shaking their heads in utter bewilderment. How on earth is a dodgy character like Brian Burke still able to exert such malevolent influence, both in and outside WA?’1 How indeed? Describing Burke as a ‘dodgy character’ purporting to be a legitimate business consultant just scratches the surface of his paradoxical life: image and reality have rarely meshed. This is clear in each of the three main phases of his public career: premier of Western Australia between 1983 and 1988, ambassador to Ireland for three years after retiring from politics, and business consultant/powerbroker in the Labor Party since the late 1990s. In each of these phases he lived parallel lives; his public persona concealed his private actions. He was among the first wave of politicians in the late 1970s to utilise the power of the media, becoming one of the undisputed masters of political spin. Burke used this skill to mask a fascination for both wealth and power and, importantly, his indifference to many democratic conventions. In his first phase, this mastery of the media helped him become the most popular political leader in Australia during the mid 1980s. But behind the carefully cultivated charisma, Burke engaged in a world of secret deals with high-risk entrepreneurs which, by the time he left office at the beginning of 1988, had begun to unravel as the WA Inc scandal. During 1991 and 1992 a royal commission exposed the layers in which Burke concealed his reckless and secretive dealings with high-profile entrepreneurs, bypassing the proper processes of government. The after-effects of these deals were staggering: billion-dollar losses to the taxpayers while, at the same time, the Labor Party had received multi-million-dollar donations. What xii

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had been Burke’s reason for risking fundraising on this scale? And did he in any way gain personal benefit from the donations? In the second phase of his career, his parallel life was equally pronounced. While ambassador to Ireland, Burke was again involved in several questionable business dealings. Called back from his post to appear before the Royal Commission into WA Inc, he eventually faced charges which sent him to prison twice during the early to mid 1990s. It was widely thought that his reputation was so damaged that he would never again occupy a public role. Few at the time understood the duplicity which had led to such a dramatic fall from grace. Kim Beazley, an old friend of the family, was at a loss to explain how the Brian Burke he knew was the man exposed during the WA Inc Royal Commission: ‘The fate of Brian Burke is one of the things that mystifies me. Next to Neville Wran, he is the best politician I ever came across, and that things could have gone so bad still baffles me.’2 Out of jail by late 1997, and bitter about his loss of reputation, Burke set about securing his redemption. In the third phase of his career he managed a comeback to public life that must rank as one of the remarkable feats of modern politics. He re-established his authority in the right wing of the Labor Party where he even played an influential role in state and national Labor politics. And he also became a successful businessman through a consultancy he formed with former ministerial colleague Julian Grill. Part of their business strategy was to rebuild Burke’s public image which Burke largely orchestrated by exploiting old contacts in the media. These were used to project the view that Burke had been a scapegoat for the excesses of WA Inc. Yet, while trying to reclaim his respectability, Burke was simultaneously building his business consultancy by ruthlessly exploiting contacts in the Labor government and bending the processes of government decision-making to achieve outcomes for his clients. His business strategies were unconventional and often audacious, revealing a love for intrigue and risk taking. Having to face his accusers again for actions similar to WA Inc only deepened the paradox that is Brian Burke. He not only seemed unaware xiii

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of the implications of the powers of the Corruption and Crime Commission—whose genesis can be traced to the recommendations of the WA Inc Royal Commission—but he showed little capacity for selfreflection about his previous fall from grace. Just when many thought Burke had rehabilitated himself as a respectable business figure, he was revealed as a masterful but deceitful lobbyist. Kim Beazley was among the group shocked at reading the transcripts, describing their contents in two despairing words: ‘Dreadful. Awful.’3 Beazley may have acknowledged Burke as a flawed character, but not a malevolent one. For others who had been close to Burke in government, or who had observed him at work in the Labor Party after his second stint in prison, the Corruption and Crime Commission hearings revealed the man they knew only too well: the charmer, the networker, the intimidator. Yet even among this group there was surprise at the extent of his cynical, self-interested activities. Burke’s ability to disguise his private activities forms the subtext of this book. What shaped Brian Burke to operate in this way? On the surface, the question is not an easy one to answer. He had a strong family background. The son of a prominent Catholic federal Labor politician, he grew up eulogising his father’s commitment to helping society’s battlers. Yet there were great tensions in his father’s world that embroiled the son. Tom Burke was at the epicentre of ‘the Split’, one of the most tumultuous battles in Labor history; an acrimonious, ideological struggle between Catholic and communist influences in the Labor movement. Brian and his brother, Terry, grew up in the shadow of their father’s bitter defeats in this internal struggle. However personality has also played a role in fostering his covert activities. From the time he was a teenager, Burke stood out as someone possessing a special combination of interpersonal skills. He commanded more than the normal quotient of attention: he had the ‘gift of the gab’, the ability to charm, and a capacity to attract loyalists. These innate skills were nurtured in the bearpit of Labor factional politics. By the time he became premier he had refined these skills into a personalised style of xiv

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leadership. He adopted much the same approach in his career as a business consultant where his armoury of personal skills disarmed selected cabinet ministers, party officials and, it has been claimed, some senior bureaucrats. A wealth of material exists on Burke’s character. No other contemporary political figure has been so systematically examined by official inquiry. The WA Inc Royal Commission, the Corruption and Crime Commission hearings and a lengthy Select Committee report into one of his controversial consultancy deals have together generated many thousands of pages of evidence on Burke’s career and these offer unparalleled insights into his character, leadership style, methods of operation and relationships with political colleagues and business. This voluminous evidence is a repository of information on the nature of modern politics. A capacity for charm, manipulation and deceit is common to many political leaders. This shift to a more intensely Machiavellian approach to politics over recent years has emphasised the moral flexibility of leaders and their need to pursue a competitive advantage over opponents. If Burke had retired from public life as premier in the late 1980s, his career would have served as a classic illustration of this shift. But as a business consultant and an influential powerbroker in the Labor Party, who brought many of the same qualities to the fore again, it became obvious that Burke’s character goes beyond a Machiavellian framework. Few share Burke’s ability to use personality as a secret weapon. He can readily project a number of different sides to his personality while masking his motives. While some always harboured suspicion about this talent, most were seduced by it. His reputation as one of Australia’s most popular premiers was built on his ability to project charm and a sense of intimacy with the public. Burke was the ‘ordinary man’s’ premier. In reality there was nothing ordinary about Burke’s quest for power nor his fascination with the risk-taking world of business. At the individual level, Burke could extract extraordinary levels of loyalty from those in his close circle through his innate understanding of how to xv

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target an individual’s strengths and vulnerabilities. Above all, he understood the power of flattery. This skill enabled him to convince others to engage in his undertakings. Yet flattery and charm were only part of Burke’s arsenal. Occupying parallel worlds necessitated a willingness to engage in secrecy, deceit and obfuscation—Burke was a master of intrigue. While the evidence shows that Burke used his personal skills in calculated ways, his behaviour defies easy categorisation. He has always possessed some contradictory personality traits. While using his personal skills in often pernicious ways, he has been a devoted husband and family man. When in trouble, Burke has a habit of invoking the unconditional love given to him by his family. Family means a great deal to Burke, beyond even its Catholic underpinnings. While antagonistic, and frequently vengeful to many outside his circle, he has enjoyed trusting relationships with a range of longstanding friends. Burke’s generosity towards this group has a genuine quality. And, for someone whose motives were often self-seeking, he did show flashes of interest in a more equal distribution of social opportunities, especially early in his career. Despite these contradictions, however, I have tried to avoid retreating into the convenience of describing Burke simply as an enigma. There is a core to Brian Burke. A third component which played a part in Burke’s career is the weakness in the political system in which he operated. Burke’s story is a cautionary one about the vulnerability of democracy. He may have possessed the drive and skills to pursue wealth and power, but his personality and career must be placed in the context of the institutions of democracy that validated his skills, often turning a blind eye to his deployment of them. Consequently, Burke has been able to capture key elements of his party, the bureaucracy, the media and parliament. He is remarkable for not only achieving this degree of control while premier, but reclaiming a large part of it when operating as a business consultant and Labor powerbroker. Why were these institutions so prone to being captured? And how did Burke deploy his skills to do so? xvi

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Brian Burke’s is a story like few others in Australian politics. With its succession of triumphs and tragedies, its links to Labor Party history and culture, its tentacles into the world of business, its shadowy links between money and politics, and the power of the media, his career is a case study in understanding the darker sides of modern politics.

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CHAPTER 1 SON OF LABOR

RISING TO GIVE HIS FIRST SPEECH IN state parliament in November 1973, Brian Burke paid an emotional tribute to his late father, Tom. He said that ‘any credit that is mine is due to him’.1 Fourteen years later, when announcing to parliament his impending retirement, the touching bond was undiminished. Describing his father as ‘the greatest single influence on my life’, the soon to be departing premier again felt compelled to acknowledge his debt saying, ‘My achievements are to his credit.’2 There is nothing unusual in an adult paying such a tribute to a parent except that Burke’s carried an unusually reverential tone; it was as if he had lived in the shadow of an idealised version of Tom. Continuing his farewell speech, he said he hoped he had ‘brought some of his [father’s] forbearance, humility and unselfishness to this Parliament’.3 Few who knew Brian Burke well at the time would have described him as either humble or selfless. And Burke himself must have been aware of the contradiction: that after five years of engaging in reckless, secretive and high-stakes games with Perth’s entrepreneurs, he sought to leave office cloaking himself in his father’s personality, which he rightly described as thoroughly decent. At the time, the full extent of the contradiction escaped everyone. 1

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So how had the father shaped the son? And why had the son idealised himself through the father? These are tantalisingly difficult questions to untangle because Brian Burke was born into a family steeped in both religion and politics during one of the most tumultuous times in ALP history. Tom Burke would carry to his grave the scars of his battles within the smoke-filled backrooms of the ALP. His young son would witness his father’s sad demise. Tom Burke, like so many of the post World War I generation, grew up in the shadow of the Great Depression which hit Western Australia harder than most other Australian states. Born into a family of keen Labor supporters in the country near Moora, he was luckier than most in having the resources and determination to survive the catastrophic collapse of the economy. His father, Peter, descended from Irish immigrants, was a battling farmer before buying a cartage contracting business to ply produce to and from the West Perth markets. This provided a stable income while thousands were being thrown out of work. Peter’s sons joined him in the venture. With two horses and two carts, the family toiled from three in the morning until five in the afternoon.4 The slump in the price of wheat—the mainstay of the state’s already fragile economy—sparked financial hardship in city and country. This spilled over into political protest and militancy. While he was enrolled at City College to study accountancy part-time, Tom could not have escaped the desperation of the demonstrations organised by the unemployed with their pleas for ‘solidarity or starvation’. The family took an intense interest in politics: ‘Religion and Labor was all we got—father used to eat and sleep the Labor Party.’5 ‘Grandma Burke’, Tom’s grandmother, was the enforcer of the moral code, taking it upon herself to round up the local community for attendance at church. Spartan and morally upright, the Burke family weathered the Depression. But at times it must have appeared to them that the democratic system might buckle under the weight of the hard times. Fear was aroused by several protest rallies. One held in the centre of Perth turned ugly when conflict erupted between the several thousand protestors and 2

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the police. As a Labor family, the Burkes were more than likely to closely follow these events. At the intersection of politics and economics lay the family’s other abiding loyalty, the Catholic Church. It could not have escaped the Burkes’ attention that communists were thought to be stirring the pot of protest among the unemployed.6 The Catholic Church was growing ever more alarmed at the appeal of communism among its working-class flock.7 As the seeds of a struggle for the soul of the ALP were being sown, Tom Burke started to make his way in the world, and into Labor politics. Fired by his father’s enthusiasm, Tom joined a debating society and practised speaking in front of a mirror,8 and upon the completion of his commercial qualifications he threw himself into Labor activism. He had joined the party some time after Labor’s victory at the federal elections in 1929 under leader James Scullin. Soon afterwards the Burke family participated in its first election, a state election which was lost by the Collier Labor government.9 Described as ‘an earnest man of high attainment’,10 Tom had a role in forming the Perth branch of the ALP. This raised his profile and helped him win endorsement to contest the 1937 Federal election, which he lost. Events over the next few years kept Burke from renominating. Still working as a carter, he married Madeline Orr and later joined the Royal Australian Air Force. Regarded as a young man of potential, and amid the darkening clouds of World War II, Burke maintained his involvement in the administrative affairs of the ALP until 1943, when he became the Labor candidate for the federal seat of Perth. This time he won, earning the affection and support of his intensely political wider family. Tom’s sister Mary lived in the country and regularly sent him her thoughts on rural politics. In fact, when she had the telephone connected in the mid 1940s, the first bill created an almighty commotion because almost all of it had been incurred talking politics with her brother. On joining the federal parliament, Tom quickly won the affection of both Prime Minister John Curtin and Treasurer Ben Chifley. Chifley, in particular, took a shine to him as Tom stood out among his colleagues 3

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for his grasp of financial matters. Loyal and charitable and sympathetic to battlers, he was regarded as a devoted Labor man. He carried into parliament many of the values of old working-class Australia. In his maiden speech he made a heartfelt declaration that Labor would never again allow a ‘man-made depression to ravage the life of the nation’.11 And he argued that good wages were crucial to addressing the pressing problem of lifting the nation’s birthrate. He was an enthusiast for the White Australia policy, too. In one speech, he robustly declared that Australia should not apologise for the White Australia policy, explaining: ‘Racial superiority is not involved. The White Australia policy had to be introduced because unlimited immigration from Eastern countries would submerge the comparatively small white population here; and the whole of Australia’s living and working standards.’12 Two years after Tom entered parliament, and in the dying days of the war, a tired and worn-out John Curtin died in office. The by-election for his seat of Fremantle was won by Kim Beazley Sr, and Tom and the new member of parliament quickly became firm friends. They shared much in common. Both were deeply religious (Beazley belonged to the religious movement called Moral Rearmament) and fiercely anti-communist. Tom was best man at Kim’s wedding and later on their families enjoyed social occasions together. Their two sons, Kim Jr and Brian, spent a lot of time in their early years together, and were almost like cousins.13 Both men nurtured their political ambitions—Tom dreamed of one day serving as the federal treasurer in a government led by his good friend. At this time Labor had several fights on its hands which occupied Tom’s energies, none bigger than the one over Labor’s plans to nationalise the banks. Burke became one of the frontline defenders of the plan after Chifley dropped the bombshell following the 16 August 1947 Cabinet meeting.14 Emerging from the meeting with a wide grin to announce the government’s intention, Chifley seemed unprepared for the predictable backlash. While the plan caused outrage in the financial sector, and sent shivers down the backs of many Australians, Labor members of parliament with bitter memories of the Great Depression were resolute. Tom 4

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could remember the attitude of the banks during his father’s failed farming venture in the lead up to the Depression.15 With his characteristic manner of speaking at the dispatch box with one of his hands tucked in the back of his trouser belt, Tom told parliament that the development of the country was being impeded by the ‘huge burden of capital indebtedness’ endured by farmers embroiling them in ‘a never ending struggle to make ends meet’.16 With the nationalisation of the banks, farmers along with home builders and home purchasers would be provided with ‘the money they require at a reasonable rate of interest’.17 Labor members were flooded with letters of protest as the measures passed though both houses of parliament only to be struck down by the High Court in August 1948. Against this stormy background Tom’s wife Madeline had given birth to Brian on 25 February 1947. He was the couple’s third child. Terry was the eldest child, followed by Anne. The family home was in the solidly middle-class suburb of Wembley, notable for its strong Catholic population and the presence of nuns on the street walking back and forth to the Brigidine Convent. A year and a half after Brian was born, a fourth child came along, Frankie, who was soon found to have Down’s syndrome. Frankie grew up to be a much-loved member of the family, a focus for the affections of not just his brothers and sister but of the wider Burke clan. Brian Burke, in particular, was very supportive of his brother and in later years he publicly expressed his love for Frankie. But Frankie’s first few years were difficult. He was a sickly baby, in part because of the problem he had in swallowing. Madeline, joined by Tom when he was home from Canberra, would sit up all night and feed Frankie with an eye-dropper.18 For much of the time in his earliest years Brian had to fend for himself as his parents were occupied by Frankie’s special needs. This must have been a source of some anxiety for young Brian, even though his mother said that he was a happy, independent little boy.

Before the advent of air travel, the life of a Western Australian federal member of parliament was a grinding one. Away for six weeks at a time 5

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and having to face long train journeys across the endless expanse of the Nullarbor, only the most committed could endure the strain. Luckily, the Burke family home at 61 Simper Street, Wembley provided Tom with a haven. The California-style red brick bungalow, set on a quarter acre block replete with spacious back lawn, vegetable patch and garden shed, displayed the family’s solid but unpretentious circumstances. There was no flashiness about the Burkes’ life: furniture was conventional and the car was an older model. Tom’s position as a local politician lent a certain élan to the family’s reputation, but it was Frankie who helped cement the family’s links to the wider neighbourhood. He was forever ducking off up or down the street to be found by caring neighbours who would escort him home. Tom loved to chew the fat with anyone who cared to talk about the issues of the day. He also appears to have shaped Brian’s life in one very interesting way as the source of his son’s life-long fascination with stamp collecting, a hobby which, almost unbelievably, helped to send Burke to prison many years later. As a federal politician, Tom received lots of mail and, presumably, from all parts of the world. Collecting was part of the family tradition. Other adult family members kept stamp and coin collections. Starting him at a young age, Tom began interesting his son in the stamps that came through the letterbox as a way of furthering his education, encouraging him to investigate the people and places whose images adorned the stamps. After ripping the stamp off the envelope, he’d say to Brian something to the effect of ‘find out about this and stick it in your album, boy’. Harder to fathom is why Brian kept up such an interest when most other children let such childhood hobbies slip by. Being an avid collector of stamps was an integral part of Brian’s life. He once described himself to a journalist as ‘having been a self-conscious fat kid with a fascination for stamps’.19 This is probably a reference to his primary school years when his problem with weight, which dogs him to this day, manifested itself in repeated bouts of binge eating. It is likely he had a form of a compulsive eating disorder linked to anxiety. Childhood eating disorders are known to have links to family traumas.20 In Burke’s 6

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case these traumas may have been due to the difficulty his mother had giving him attention after the birth of Frankie and/or his later anxiety when he saw his father suffer at the hands of the Labor Party. These anxieties could be contained in an otherwise happy household. The kitchen was the hub of the house. Here Madeline carried out her duties as the cornerstone of the family. Loved and admired by the Burke clan, she welcomed everyone with open arms and never had a bad word for anyone. Tom had a likeable and straightforward approach to the world. But, unlike his father, Brian started showing signs of being precocious while in primary school. He could charm the nuns and have other children in stitches of laughter by peeling off one-liners with ease.21 Early on he showed an innate ability to have an effect on the emotions of others. Yet up until the age of thirteen his self-confidence was dented by his being short and fat. Afterwards he had a growth spurt which contained his battle with weight. Certainly the Burkes were an atypical family. More than most, they were drawn into the darkening clouds of international politics. The family’s politics and faith made this inevitable. The end of the war sparked renewed fears among Catholics about the influence of communists in the Australian trade union movement. For years the Catholic hierarchy had been ramping up its denunciations of the evils of communism, alarmed that many of its flock continued to support the Left, ignoring dictates about ‘correct’ political behaviour.22 During the early to mid 1940s left-wing ideas remained popular among many working people, who continued to suffer poor working conditions and low wages. Nevertheless the Communist Party of Australia actively supported the war effort. At their high point in 1945 communists could lay claim to at least a third of the votes at the Australian Council of Trade Unions Congress, and they controlled a number of powerful trade unions even though from this point their influence began to slip away.23 Intensifying concern about their activities was the shadow of the Cold War and the incipient rise in tensions between a distrustful Soviet Union and a fearful Western alliance. For those connected to the world of politics, the early 7

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Cold War years were a time of increasing insecurity. Loyal Catholics felt especially vulnerable. It would have been impossible for the Burkes to ignore the international role of the Catholic Church as one of the main sword bearers opposing communism. Equally the family would have been aware that fear of communism was becoming irresistible political capital for conservative politicians. Tom became enmeshed in the politics of the Cold War. With communism on the march in much of Asia, the Soviet Union in possession of the ‘bomb’ and with the outbreak of a witch-hunt against communists in the United States, it was inevitable that fear of the perceived threat of communism to the security of Australia would be exploited locally. The alarm over communist involvement in the trade unions became the lightning rod for the political battle within the ALP. Tom Burke was opposed to communism but not only because he was Catholic. Speeches he gave in parliament indicate a strongly felt, anti-communist world view. But this was not the climate for rational enunciations of political philosophy, especially those uttered by a provincial West Australian politician not well versed in international affairs. In fact, such an irrational climate was bound to produce casualties. Tom Burke became one of the saddest casualties of the split in the ALP between its left and right wings. He was politically destroyed by this schism and ended up despised by large sections of his beloved Labor Party. To many Catholics, however, he remained a hero. The spark that led to his ultimate demise was ignited by an influential Catholic layperson, B.A. Santamaria, whose ‘doom-laden view of the world’ espoused the possibility that, through the ALP’s left wing, the Communist Party could take over the party.24 However fanciful and exaggerated a notion this was, Santamaria, with the backing of the Church, embarked on a crusade to rid the ALP of its communist influences and, in the process, change the party’s policy direction. Forming a secret group called the Movement he infiltrated unions with Industrial Groups committed to his organisation. Although Santamaria repeatedly denied that he intended to ‘take over’ the Labor Party, later research shows he wrote 8

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to Melbourne’s Archbishop Mannix telling him that he intended to replace the Labor leadership with Movement sympathisers.25 As the party became increasingly divided against itself, concern over the activities of the Groupers reached Chifley’s notice. His opposition to the involvement of the Catholic Church in politics fell on deaf ears as local priests gave directions from the pulpit.26 Although the Industrial Groups never operated in Western Australia, Tom Burke would still be drawn into the tension over the ideological division between Labor’s left and right wings. This division soon hardened into bitter personal conflicts. The 1949 election added to the climate of fear as Menzies ramped up his anti-communist rhetoric. Chifley’s efforts to campaign on Labor’s proud record since 1941 were drowned out by Menzies’ clever depiction of the ALP as being too close to communism and too out of touch with middle Australia, Menzies so-called ‘forgotten people’. Backed by a bellicose, anti-communist, conservative press, Menzies capitalised on this rhetoric to distance Labor from the post-war aspirations of Australians by declaring that, if elected, his government would ban the Communist Party. Labor lost the election, although Tom Burke narrowly survived. With the resumption of parliament he must have felt that the underlying tension over Menzies’ proposed Communist Party Dissolution Bill would come ever closer to the surface. Shadowing Tom behind the scenes was the recently appointed state secretary of the ALP in Western Australia, ‘Joe’ Chamberlain. His career in state and national ALP politics is legendary. Life had forged in him a dogged and unyielding nature and a capacity for bearing a grudge. Born in Britain in 1900 into Dickensian poverty, he quickly absorbed the language and mentality of class hatred. His was a world of sadistic teachers, dole queues, pawn shops and paupers’ funerals. He was conscripted into the British army in 1918 and his hatred of the ruling class heightened as he trudged across the war-ravaged plains of Eastern Europe. At war’s end, he left Britain and migrated to Australia, feeling like he had been ‘rejected from its uncaring womb’.27 9

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When the young Chamberlain arrived in Perth in 1923, he was immersed anew in a life of struggle and bare survival. He worked as a labourer on road construction, railway and drainage jobs before taking up a bush block and trying his luck as a farmer. Recently married and with the onset of the Great Depression, life on the land became a gruelling experience which resulted in ruin. The mental scars from this experience led to his lifelong advocacy of democratic socialism. Returning to Perth, Chamberlain began a new career in the union movement and the climb to union, and Labor Party, leadership. Fearless, uncompromising and with a forensic command of party rules, Chamberlain quickly became a polarising figure in the state and, later, in national branches of the ALP. In 1961 he assumed the position of federal secretary of the party where his stoushes with rising star Gough Whitlam dominated debates in the party. As demonstrated by these encounters, Chamberlain was afraid of no-one. Admired by a core of party insiders for his courage and genuine principles, he was loathed in equal measure by many of the party’s right wing. Constantly in his sights were people whom he believed deviated from ‘correct’ Labor principles.28 Tom Burke came under his scrutiny over Menzies’ 1950 Communist Party Dissolution Bill. From that point a showdown between the two was inevitable. This showdown became part of the Burke family’s narrative, and centred around Chamberlain’s determination as ‘a cold, ruthless, enigmatic operator of the far Left’ to carry out ‘the political destruction of the moderate Labor man, Tom Burke’.29 Signalling that an American-style McCarthyist witch-hunt for alleged communists would be unleashed on Australia, Menzies’ speech introducing his plan to ban the Communist Party was a masterful example of fear politics. Communists were duplicitous, he thundered. Their cunning ways were cleverly hidden behind a respectable facade. They were difficult to counter, and the union movement was especially vulnerable. In Menzies’ lofty mind, the Australian working class was easy prey for communists’ devious means.30 With tensions already rising over the activities of Santamaria’s Movement, the bill to ban the Communist Party was guaranteed to 10

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bring the divisions in the Labor Party into the open. Many in the ALP regarded the bill as a threat to basic civil liberties in that it reversed the onus of proof: those charged with being communists would have to prove they were not. The bill ran counter to Labor tradition and to its support for civil and human rights. When it was introduced in the House of Representatives in March 1950, Labor took a strong stand in opposing it. Trouble started brewing when the bill reached the Senate. Ignoring Chifley’s resolute position, the parliamentary Labor Party agreed to reverse its blanket opposition and sponsor amendments, a process that divided the party’s Federal Executive. The executive split down the middle, and the deadlock was only broken when Tom Burke persuaded the Western Australian State Executive to allow its members of the federal parliament to vote in support of the bill. It then fell to Burke to phone through the decision to Chifley. Pained over the switch in positions, Chifley told him, ‘You could not have done a worse thing to the Party’.31 In Chifley’s office at the time he took the call was South Australian Labor member Clyde Cameron, who was struck by his leader’s ashenfaced look of anguish. When he learned the cause, Cameron exploded, ‘That bastard ought to be expelled, you’ve treated him like a son.’32 What prompted Burke to advocate the change is not entirely clear. Chifley thought he was motivated by wanting to protect his slim margin at the next election, but he may have harboured nobler motives in wanting to blunt Menzies’ anti-communist rhetoric as a political tool against the party. Certainly, Burke later wrote to his leader explaining that he had been trying to save the party from electoral defeat, and not simply trying to protect his place in parliament. He offered Chifley a letter of resignation as testimony to his motives which Chifley tore up.33 Nonetheless Tom Burke had delivered his mentor a humiliating blow. Forced by his executive, Chifley had to recant on his declaration of principle and instruct Caucus to let the bill pass. He had a brutal message for the party: ‘accept your humiliation and we can go forward, recriminate and we shall split.’34 11

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Although deeply saddened, Chifley resisted the urgings of some of his colleagues to pursue recriminations against Burke. According to Clyde Cameron, Chifley loved Tom like a son. Fred Daly, another young Labor member, thought that Burke was the ‘pride of Chifley’s eye’ and was being groomed to be a future treasurer.35 But there was no hiding that Chifley felt shattered. A few weeks later he had a heart attack and died. Tom’s reaction to his leader’s passing has not been recorded. He might well have felt deep regret given the stress he had placed his mentor under during the last weeks of his life. His reaction can be surmised from his son Brian’s idolisation of the Labor icon—the ex-train driver whose sweetness of temperament was combined with a faith in the ‘light on the hill’. Brian proudly placed a signed, framed photograph of ‘Chif ’ on the wall of his office when he became premier. Less forgiving of Burke was Joe Chamberlain, as Lyla Elliott, his secretary, remembered: ‘I don’t think Joe Chamberlain ever forgave Tom Burke for what he did to Ben Chifley . . . They were arch enemies from that time until Tom died in 1973.’36 Chamberlain became something of an anti-Catholic in the early 1950s. Just as Santamaria had developed conspiracy theories about the extent of communist influence in the labour movement, so Chamberlain had succumbed to a similar mindset about the influence of the Catholics. He was strongly influenced by The Catholic Church Against the Twentieth Century, Arvo Manhattan’s controversial book which investigated the Church’s extensive international involvement in civic affairs. According to Chamberlain’s son Harold, the book ‘greatly disturbed Dad because he read it at the time the Catholic Church was trying to proselytize its private entrepreneurial philosophy in the Australian Labor Party with the concurrent goal of destruction of Labor’s doctrine of socialism’. From then on, Joe became a fierce opponent of the ‘remorseless tentacles of the Catholic Church’.37 By contrast, Tom Burke had always been a dedicated, if not doctrinaire, Catholic. Attending mass on Sundays and observing all the church rituals was part of his family tradition and he was friends with many of the Catholic members of the Labor Party. 12

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These personal and political divides instilled suspicion, distrust and hatred between the two men. After circling each other for months, Burke and Chamberlain’s paths finally crossed at the party’s Federal Conference held in Hobart in March 1955. Prior to the conference new Labor leader, Dr Bert Evatt (whom Burke had unsuccessfully stood against following Chifley’s death), denounced the Groupers at work in the party as disloyal Labor members, stating that their methods of infiltration resembled those of both the fascists and communists. Evatt instigated an investigation into the Victorian branch where he believed most of the trouble was occurring. In Western Australia the scramble for the election of delegates to the Hobart conference witnessed Tom Burke mounting a concerted attack on Chamberlain in a party forum which was greeted with prolonged applause.38 Chamberlain had been humiliated. The hatred between the two was now at a flashpoint. When delegates arrived in Hobart for the conference, two groups from Victoria turned up. One had been elected by a newly installed State Executive and was composed of anti-Movement members and the second was an unofficial group effectively made up of supporters of the Catholic Movement. This latter group intended to gain admission to the conference as the legitimate Victorian delegation. When the conference rejected their claims, seventeen delegates, including Tom, walked out and boycotted the event. The party was split. Several of those who boycotted the conference went on to form the Labor Party (Anti-Communist), later renamed the Democratic Labor Party (DLP). Tom Burke was not one of them. He opposed the formation of the DLP, although he was considered to be sympathetic to the Catholic Groupers. Back in Perth after the conference, the State Executive met to consider the implications of the debacle in Hobart. On a hot March night in the old Trades Hall, the crowded meeting room was tense, fetid and smoky. Looking tired and nervous and smoking incessantly, Tom Burke rose to give a report but his performance was limp. Chamberlain attacked Burke, alleging his sympathies lay with the rebels. With feelings rising, the four Western Australian delegates who had boycotted the 13

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Hobart conference—Burke, Kim Beazley MHR, Senator Joe Cooke and railway worker Dan James—had charges laid against them. Chamberlain orchestrated a motion to have their parliamentary endorsement withdrawn. The Left were behind this attempted ‘lynching’ and they would have succeeded had it not been for the intervention of Premier ‘Bert’ Hawke, who could see the electoral consequences of a split in Western Australian Labor ranks similar to that which had occurred in other states. The four were given the relatively mild punishment of being disbarred from any participation in federal conferences for three years.39

Against the backdrop of these crises, Tom Burke found the time to encourage his sons’ interest in politics, even though he was continually on the telephone on party matters when at home. Politics was an all-consuming passion for the family. Elections were ‘like mass—an obligation to be met by the whole family’.40 Gathering around the dining room table, all the children stuffed envelopes with how-to-vote cards. They also letter-boxed for Tom and other Labor candidates. From a young age Terry and Brian accompanied their father on an endless round of federal and state election campaigns. As a bright and engaging child, Brian soaked up his father’s political lessons—how to run grassroots election campaigns, meet and greet electors and make impromptu speeches were all an integral part of Burke family life. But there may well have been one lesson that stood out in particular. Tom Burke, like all successful politicians, engaged in forms of brokering with local interests groups—doing favours that were then weaved into the cultivation of votes. Tom Burke seemed to be a master of the art form, working the ethnic communities of Perth and currying their favour.41 Even without a formal split of the ALP in Western Australia, the aftermath of the ructions elsewhere was no less profound in Perth, not least because Chamberlain kept an ever watchful eye over internal party matters. According to Labor luminary and speechwriter Graham Freudenberg, Chamberlain was the national conscience and the chief 14

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tactician in the fight to keep out any further intrusion of the Catholic Church into the party. Lauded as the ‘grey eminence’ of the Labor movement throughout the 1950s, he maintained ‘a steely eye’ for an opponent’s weakness’.42 Tom Burke continued to feel the pressure of his divided loyalties. Along with other Catholic Labor members he would have read the Bishops’ Pastoral Letter of 27 April 1955, ‘The Menace of Communism’, with its clear support for the work of the Industrial Groupers.43 Within the Labor Party, Evatt maintained his attacks on Catholics and Santamaria’s Movement. By the time of the December 1955 election, Tom Burke found himself in a pincer, caught between his loyalty to the Labor party and his bitter dislike of Chamberlain and Evatt, the latter alienating his detractors in the party with his erratic and often bad-tempered behaviour.44 As events unfolded, Tom lost the election and his seat of Perth fell to the Liberal candidate, the Catholic Frederick, later Sir Fredrick, Chaney. The West Australian campaigned vigorously for Chaney and its hostility was keenly felt by Tom and the wider family. Election night was full of tension for the Burke clan. Tom’s sister Mary and her family listened to the count through the crackle of their lounge room radio and any of the children who coughed or made a noise were summarily sent out of the room. With the outcome looking grim, a ‘hail Mary’ was uttered to try to get Tom over the line, but no divine intervention was forthcoming. The loss of the Catholic vote from Labor was a decisive factor in the election outcome. Burke was crestfallen over the loss of his seat and career. But he was to suffer further humiliation. Inside the Labor Party, Joe Chamberlain tightened his grip on the party structure and the party’s memory. According to Mal Bryce, Labor member and later Brian Burke’s deputy, ‘You couldn’t help knowing from Joe Chamberlain that there were the good guys and the rats and Tom Burke was a rat to 75 per cent of the ALP given that he controlled the membership so well.’45 But on the right of the party Tom Burke was seen as something of a martyr for having challenged Chamberlain. With the loss of his seat, Tom took a job as welfare and amenities 15

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officer at West Australian Newspapers Ltd. It was not a senior role and was relatively undemanding. After the years of having the status and stimulation of federal politics, this shift in occupation was a terrible blow to his self-esteem. But, with his integrity intact, Tom devoted much of his energies into working with the Slow Learning Children’s Group (later Activ Foundation), a reflection of his commitment to Frankie. Burke nonetheless hankered after a return to federal politics. But by a combination of naivety and, some might say, stupidity, he was turned into a Labor outcast. The events that propelled him toward political oblivion were driven by the backwash of the personal and sectarian divisions that had consumed the party over the preceding few years. Concerned about what he saw as a high-handed action by Chamberlain towards one of his political colleagues, Burke threatened to withdraw his nomination for the seat of Perth at the forthcoming 1957 election. He thought that such principled loyalty to a friend would be endorsed by the rank-and-file of the party and force Chamberlain’s hand. No such thing happened. In fact Tom had handed Chamberlain just the weapon he needed to finally be rid of another of the ‘rats’ in the ranks. Ever the guardian of the rules, Chamberlain used Burke’s withdrawal of his nomination as a statement of resignation from the party. Chamberlain’s position prevailed. Tom was no longer a member of his beloved Labor Party. This time Burke was really shattered. He was both downcast and demoralised, more so because he felt that the party had not rallied to support him in his hour of need. He lacked sufficient influence over his colleagues to counter Chamberlain, who used his position to make sure that Tom was not re-admitted to the party. Chamberlain continued to maintain that Tom was the Western Australian leader of the anti-Labor Catholic group.46 This became part of wider Labor folklore although there is no direct evidence that Tom ever thought of joining the Democratic Labor Party. His re-admission to the Labor Party became something of a cause celebre for those on the Right until their eventual success in 1964.47 Burke’s political career was effectively over, and he was left bitter and broken by the experience. On at least one occasion he wondered whether 16

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it had all been worthwhile. Lunching with friend and colleague Brian Peachey, Tom Burke admitted to feeling he had neglected his sons because of his long and continual absences from home. It was a moment of sad reflection, Peachey recalls.48 In the last of his working years, Tom ambled to and from the St George’s Terrace offices of the West Australian with a characteristic stoop and with one of his hands tucked underneath the top of his trousers as if he were still at the dispatch box.

Brian Burke was aged between seven and eight when the events that became known as the Split occurred. It affected him and the family but just how deeply is now difficult to assess. Snippets of his lingering anger litter his private and public comments. In 1985 he told one journalist, ‘I saw federal politics break my father’s heart.’49 Seven years later, in a reflective mood as he prepared to face his accusers in the Royal Commission into WA Inc, Burke offered the even more revealing comment that he ‘may come to forgive [those who ended his father’s career] in about 40 years’ time’.50 The emotion behind these statements is palpable. Notwithstanding these sentiments, the Split and its aftermath do not seem to have disrupted Burke’s schooling. In fact he attained a certain notoriety as a result of his family’s experiences. At Marist Brothers High School he stood out from the pack because of his father’s reputation in Catholic circles. In the early 1960s Catholic schools in Perth recruited a number of Marist brothers from Victoria as teachers. Being drawn from the source of the party’s troubles, they had an added impetus to teach the boys about the history of the Split. Two themes stood out: communists were out to take over the Labor Party and Tom Burke ‘was the big Western Australian hero and victim’ of the drama. This ensured Brian was both better known than other kids at his school and in wider Catholic school circles. At an inter-school football match between rival Catholic schools, a youthful Joseph Poprzeczny—who went on to become a critic of the Burke Government—remembers seeing Brian on the opposing team and thinking, ‘Ah, that’s the son of Tom Burke.’51 17

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While Brian was not a scholarly type, there are still traces of Marist Brothers’ teachings in Burke’s approach to politics. Suffusing the curriculum was the brothers’ opposition to both the power of the state and the stock market. Instead, they believed in distributism and federalism. The former was derived from late nineteenth-century Catholic intellectuals who fashioned a movement centred around the idea of a society where ‘all owners are workers and all workers are owners’; that is, one where property belonged to the many rather than the few through a mix of state ownership, cooperatives and guilds.52 This philosophy was designed as an alternative to both the ‘evils’ of socialism and unregulated capitalism. While Burke took little interest in political ideology, he frequently invoked a middle-of-the-road belief in the need for the community to benefit from development, especially in the provision of community facilities. And, of course, he took on board the commitment to federalism—he longed to make Western Australia less reliant on the financial power of the federal government. But it was the impact of the sectarian bitterness surrounding the Split that marked young Brian’s experience of Catholicism. It remains one of the central, underlying and unresolved dilemmas of his psychological development. Several authors have argued that lodged in Burke’s personality was a desire to make Labor successful as a vindication of his father’s demise and to enact retribution on the Left for cruelly destroying his father. John Hamilton, a journalist who was close to Burke during his premiership and author of the authorised biography of the premier, wrote: ‘These events [the Split] burned deeply into the heart of young Brian Burke who loved his father greatly. He vowed to right what he saw as the injustice some day, reform the party and by his actions make his father proud of him.’53 Kim Beazley Jr says Brian Burke’s experience of watching his father suffer had ‘an horrendous’ impact. He became consumed with vindicating his father and discussed with Beazley the desire ‘to settle the accounts of those who had been his father’s tormentors’.54 Burke acknowledged as much himself in an interview just before his retirement. Under the headline ‘Premier tells of his father’s shattered 18

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dream’, he explained that being expelled from the Labor Party ruined his father’s life ‘because he was a very committed Labor Party person who couldn’t be happy playing a role outside the Party’.55 How much Tom expressed his emotions and how much was indirectly picked up and internalised by his sons is not entirely clear, but it is not hard to imagine some bitter lessons passing from father to sons: politics is a dangerous game; there are enemies; people could be untrustworthy; the party’s structures are flawed; good people get crushed. At the height of the Split it would have been impossible for Tom and Madeline to spare their children from the poisonous atmosphere and the accompanying sense of desperation about their future. While central to his life, the Split was not the only factor to affect Brian’s developing personality. There were instinctive qualities as well which started to become more apparent as he went through high school. He was known as smart but lazy with a love of debating; he had a dexterity of intellect which he could readily deploy, taking up either side of a case.56 Joe Poprzeczny also recalls a teenager with an uncommon ability to attract ‘camp followers’—a young man who, because he wanted to be at the centre of things, tended to initiate action and lead others. In the competitive world of the school yard, Burke ‘did not want to hang around being number two’. Poprzeczny, of course, is recollecting Brian from the perspective of a fellow teenager. Some adults viewed Brian’s precociousness as having an additional dimension. One of Brian’s teachers recalled his talent for mischief-making. He was adept at being the ringleader who organised pranks while being equally adept at pleading innocence after the event—‘It’s nothing to do with me, Miss’— and dobbing in others—‘It was Johnny who broke the window, Miss.’ How much should be made of such recollections? The evidence is suggestive but fragmentary. On the one hand they show traits that might be seen as common in still developing teenage boys. On the other hand they hint at an emerging talent to organise and direct people. When fully formed, such traits might take a person in a number of different directions. Hindsight might suggest that they formed the basis of Burke’s 19

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later capacity for a particular style of leadership and for a capacity for manipulation. But just how far such skills would take him was not preordained. Much else would happen to Brian Burke before his character became fully formed. Burke understandably rejects the claim that he was motivated by the need to rescue the family name. He addressed this at the time he became Leader of the Opposition in 1981. Even then, Burke’s potential motives had become something of folklore. A journalist wrote: ‘It [the Split] must have been a traumatic experience for the family, but if it left its scars they are not evident. Brian says he doesn’t know whether his father got a raw deal. ‘‘I was only seven. I wouldn’t even know what the issues were’’.’57 Even though this is unlikely to have been the case, it is not surprising that Burke would want to dispel any belief that he possessed such self-indulgent political motives. Yet, in a reflective moment two decades later, Burke told a friend how much his desire to succeed in politics had come from wanting to restore his father’s reputation. But the deeper issue to examine is the way in which this motivation manifested itself in Brian’s approach to politics. How did the psychological and political components link up in his make-up? The starting point in answering this question is not the Split but Burke’s relationship with his father. Burke venerated his father. His father was a local celebrity, clearly someone his constituents looked up to. But there was an authoritarian underpinning in his relationships with his children that was not uncharacteristic of the times. The official biography by John Hamilton has Burke recollecting, ‘We really just listened to Dad; he was the talker. We loved him so much that no one ever argued with him.’58 Yet several pages on a school friend of Burke’s recalls, ‘The only person Brian couldn’t out argue or flim-flam was his father. Tom could cut him down in two seconds.’59 The dynamics between father and son may never be fully understood, but the relationship was marked by an unusual combination of love, awe and obedience. This was shaped by a combination of factors: Tom Burke’s long absences, which made him a figure to be adored when he 20

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came back home, and the Split, which turned him into a local Catholic hero. At a Perth Rotary luncheon in 1987, Brian Burke paid further tribute to his father, describing him as ‘the finest man who ever lived’.60 Burke had an unusually high need to publicly acknowledge his father. During his last Cabinet meeting he raised a proposal to rename the central Perth bus depot the Tom Burke Centre. Unfortunately for him, several Cabinet ministers opposed the idea and Burke suffered a rare defeat at the hands of his colleagues. Thus Burke was predisposed to embrace his father’s suffering at the iron hands of Chamberlain and to champion the need for his memory and legacy to be recognised. How far would Burke seek to build the Labor Party in his own image to cement the family name? Did vengeance play a part in sustaining his appetite for power? Joining the ALP at the young age of sixteen was an indicator that politics was ‘in the blood’, but little else was preordained. Burke’s style of leadership would be the result of a much more complex interplay of his personality and future experiences.

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CHAPTER 2 THE MAKING OF A POLITICAL OPERATOR

IMAGES OF BRIAN BURKE AS A YOUNG man are seared into the memories of a surprising number of Western Australians. In his twenties, Burke was a minor celebrity journalist in the emerging format of ‘infotainment’ television news. He seemed made for the role. One of the stunts for which he became famous occurred during his coverage of rural floods. With a camera team at the ready, and going live to air, the initial closeup shot showed little more of the intrepid reporter than his face and a hand clutching a microphone. As the camera panned out, Burke was revealed up to his armpits in flood water. Viewers were given a graphic illustration of the extent of the floods as well as Burke’s style as a journalist. He dared to be different in his willingness to entertain.1 But when those around at that time think of Burke as premier, they are often perplexed. The image they retain of the pie-loving journalist, not averse to a bit of buffoonery, is at odds with the slimmed down ‘telegenic’ premier. For those who did not know the family, the younger Brian Burke could easily be dismissed as lacking the qualities for high office. He and his family had other ideas. Burke assumed family responsibilities very early in his life. He met 22

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his future wife, Sue, who was educated at Perth’s Mercedes College, at a school dancing class when they were both sixteen. They started going out several months later and married in September 1965, with the approval of both sets of parents. Described at the time as ‘slim, quietly spoken and attractive’, Sue has remained in the shadow of Brian’s career. Reportedly a committed and devout Catholic, she made plain early on that she had no intention of being a public figure. Shy and introverted, she shuns the limelight, once explaining, ‘I don’t like walking into a room full of people and having to strike up a conversation, sometimes with a stranger.’2 Motherhood has been the centre of Sue Burke’s life. Their early years together were tough. Brian quit studying law at the University of Western Australia after completing his first year and, with help from his father, took a job at West Australian Newspapers Ltd as a cadet proofreader. Brian worked the ‘dog shift’ from 6 p.m. until 2.40 a.m., and the couple lived ‘on the bones of their arses’ for a number of years in cramped, rented accommodation before moving to a State Housing Commission home in 1970. Eventually they put a deposit on a house in the working-class suburb of Balga. By this time, Burke viewed Sue as a saint. As one friend explained this very traditional male IrishCatholic attitude: ‘Your wife is your channel to heaven but you don’t feel under any obligation to work at getting there yourself.’3 It’s less clear how quiet and saintly Sue dealt with Brian’s boldness, described by Kim Beazley as ‘the best colour and light show in town’. Devoted to each other, the couple began a family very soon after marrying. They had two children by the time they were twenty-one, three by twenty-four. To make ends meet, Brian took an after-hours job delivering meat pies which, while improving his bank balance, did nothing for his burgeoning weight problem. At the beginning of 1967 Burke received his first big break when he was accepted as a cadet journalist on the West Australian. And so began a career that was critical in turning him into a politician and, ultimately, a leader. But none of this was immediately obvious because when Burke left the print room for the newsroom he was a 95-kilogram, dishevelled 23

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party-goer. Even at this early stage, he had the capacity to polarise opinions. Part of his reputation was based on his ability to down two pies, two rolls and three cans of Coke for lunch and on his fondness for socialising. One commentator described Burke in the late 1960s as ‘typical of the young male journalists in Perth at the time, who were bound by late-night camaraderie and booze’.4 Burke could always be relied upon to be the life of the party—‘a two-pot screamer, a collector of people at bars (but never a womaniser), and a natural stand-up comic’.5 But being a slobbish party-goer was not always a laughing matter. He once danced the twist so vigorously that his knees gave way and he couldn’t walk for days. However, not everyone saw this lighter side of Burke. Young cadet journalist Tim Treadgold sat opposite Burke in the newsroom. He encountered a young man with ‘an enormous chip on his shoulder’. Anyone who came from the wealthy western suburbs of Perth ‘was instantly tarred with blue [Liberal] politics. I did come from that side of politics and I was therefore his enemy—before I’d even spoken to the man.’6 Even at this early stage Burke showed signs of harbouring ambitions beyond journalism. As part of his cadet training, the West Australian sent him to trotting meetings to collate the race results. Revealing an entrepreneurial side, Burke sensed the opportunity to publish a guide for punters. He encouraged his friends to become involved, explaining that some of the profits they made could be used for the Labor Party.7 He enlisted the West’s racing writer to provide expert commentary and pressganged others into production of the guide, including old friends Kim Beazley, John Dawkins and Tony Lloyd. The scheme was a roaring success, largely because the first issue picked seven out of the eight winners. Originally selling for 10 cents with a print run of 2000 copies, it was not long before 16 000 copies were being offloaded at 20 cents a copy. Burke ended his association with the publication prior to entering parliament in 1973. In addition to the opportunity it provided to flirt with the entrepreneurial side of his character, the Punter’s Guide allowed Burke to develop his emerging ideas on populist politics, showing him how to 24

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reach the broad mass of people. The Punter’s Guide took him into popular sporting culture, even though he did not have a background in this world. Thus, even before he entered parliament, Burke was interested in ideas about building networks and communicating with ordinary people.

During 1969 and 1970 Burke broadened his experience in journalism. He went first to Radio 6PM, where he developed a reputation for having an ‘entrepreneurial’ approach to coming up with stories, and then Channel 7 offered him a job. It was here, under the influence of station executive Darcy Farrell, that he developed his tabloid style of television news gathering. While premier, Burke sometimes pontificated on the declining standards of the profession, even though he had not enjoyed wide stature as a journalist himself. To one colleague, he seemed to be ‘one of the drifters in and out of journalism’; another described him as ‘a knockabout reporter more into stunts than serious journalism’.8 Although as a young journalist and a member of the ALP, Burke somehow managed to be disengaged from the political causes of the day: the rising fortunes of federal Labor under Gough Whitlam and his agenda for social change, and the heated debates around the Vietnam War.9 He was far more interested in building up his understanding of the modern media. He started to master its language and comprehend its potential. Kim Beazley recalls: ‘Burke had a consciousness of public opinion, and the need to frame arguments within it, at a much more advanced way than any one had at the time.’10 Even though politics was in his blood, it is not clear when Burke actually decided on a political career. Certainly Tom pushed his boys towards entering parliament, seeing in them the chance to vindicate his own blighted career. Brother Terry, who had reportedly been primed from boyhood to enter politics,11 was elected to state parliament in 1968, rekindling some of his father’s old networks among Perth’s ethnic communities, especially the Italian community. But Brian’s decision in 1973 to run as a candidate in the seat of Balcatta (renamed Balga in 1974) was 25

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taken on the spur of the moment when the local member Herb Graham, deputy premier in John Tonkin’s Labor government, suddenly decided to leave politics. Burke made the decision on the very day the vacancy became known.12 Getting endorsement for a seat in parliament involved the brothers taking on Tom’s nemesis—Joe Chamberlain—for a second time. As general secretary he had continued to rule the party with all the force of his dogmatic personality. He guarded entry into the party as if it were a closed society. Still bearing the scars of the Split, he was suspicious about why people wanted to join the ALP. Throughout the 1960s and early 1970s party membership was limited to about 1200 and Chamberlain managed to broadcast the message that new members were not welcome. By 1973, however, Chamberlain was old and approaching retirement and while he tried to undermine Burke’s preselection, the control he had held for so long over the party was slipping. He also proved to be no match for the new-generation Burke machine. Terry helped secure the numbers of the State Executive by lobbying, in particular, the Italian community while Brian marched into the preselection meeting with the air of an aspiring actor about to be auditioned for the first time. Sitting inside the meeting room waiting for him to give his speech was a group of hard-nosed unionists and, of course, Chamberlain, whose poker-faced seriousness set the stamp on proceedings. With great theatrical effect, Burke took off his coat and threw it onto a seat before launching into his speech which is remembered ‘not for any enunciation of personal ideology but for its brilliant pitch to the sensibilities of the State Executive’.13 It was a winning performance—and testimony to Burke’s ability to sell himself. He talked up his media experience and the ways in which he could contribute to the Labor government. His style was one of clever humility and it won him preselection for the by-election in 1973. Much was at stake. The Labor government had a tenuous one-seat majority in parliament. The loss of the by-election would result in its fall from office. Burke knew he was in for a fight. In fact, he had taken the unusual step of undertaking a public opinion poll in the seat which showed 26

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he would not be victorious. Armed with this information, he realised he would need all the assistance with the campaign he could get. There was one door he knew he could knock on, that of his old friend Kim Beazley, who was acting secretary of the state party. With brother Terry accompanying him, Brian went to see Beazley with the purpose of securing as much money from the state party coffers as they could persuade Beazley to hand over. Checking the electoral account and finding it contained $6000, Beazley withdrew every cent of it and deposited it in Burke’s campaign fund. Doubtless he was trying to help a friend and one who was in a tight contest but when Joe Chamberlain got wind of the transaction, he was livid. Rising from his sick bed he turned all his legendary anger on to the young Beazley: ‘That was all the money for the state election,’ he fumed. As Beazley’s biographer, Peter FitzSimons, explains, Chamberlain swiftly turned anger into action: ‘Old Joe would sooner die with his boots on than let young Beazley stay at the wheel a minute longer. Coughing and wheezing all the way, he re-took possession of his desk, his office, his dignity, and kicked Kim out.’14 Burke won the 1973 by-election but only by a worryingly tight thirty votes. The potential threat to his future career represented by that close call shaped his next few years in politics. He maintained a low profile in the party while he obsessively cultivated his electorate. After the defeat of the Tonkin government at the election the following year, the Labor Party went into the wilderness for a decade. While the party tried to rebuild its fortunes by slowly attracting new talent and developing policies, Burke played little or no part in this grinding work. For the next five or six years, he developed an approach that made him the most popular local member anyone could remember and, in the process, honed political skills that would later be his hallmark. Balga, the electorate he represented and the suburb in which he lived, was a neglected wasteland in the early 1970s. It comprised a conglomeration of lowincome Housing Commission residents who suffered all the privations of people existing at the margins. They certainly needed a champion and they found one in Burke. 27

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Burke worked frenetically to build up mass support at the local level; other politicians were in awe of his commitment and skills. He had long queues of people visiting his electoral office bringing with them their housing, social security and employment problems. He organised sporting facilities and community club houses for his electorate. He was patron of numerous community sporting clubs including the local soccer club where his children played. He was behind a scheme to build a new clubhouse. The local council was reluctant to support the proposal, so Burke went guarantor to the council for the sum of $30 000 to cover the cost of the facility. Soon after, the project went sour and was eventually shelved. None too impressed, the council, which included some of Burke’s political opponents, thought he should be made to answer for its failure. There was no real thought that he should be forced to make good on the guarantee, but they felt he should answer for his actions. Burke was invited to council and asked whether or not he was going to honour his commitment. With a document with his signature on it, Burke, sweating and squirming, gave a limp explanation of why the guarantee should not be upheld. Despite his discomfort, Burke’s confrontation with the council did not impart a cautionary lesson on offering financial guarantees: a decade later he committed the state government to be guarantor of the ailing Rothwells Bank. But there was no doubting his commitment and activism as a local member. One colleague later reflected: ‘He would take up all those claims of constituency issues, no matter how small. He would follow them up, he would keep writing to people and he developed systems of contacting people about the birth of a new baby or the death of a relative.’15 When Labor parliamentarian Tom Stephens, who was elected nine years after Burke, was doing the rounds of factional leaders to secure preselection in 1981, he remembers visiting Burke at his electorate office and being amazed at his energy: ‘Brian was in the back office with a hive of activity around him. He could juggle simultaneously two phone conversations and people in and out of his office.’ In time Burke became known as the Godfather of Balga, but not in the 28

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pejorative sense of that term. Totally committed to helping people in his under-resourced electorate, he won their affection. Constituents ‘used to bring their children down for a talking-to from Brian if the kids were getting into strife’.16 He frequently gave money to constituents in financial strife. In fact, Sue complained to friends that the family’s own finances often suffered as a consequence of Brian’s generosity. Burke also had other ways of demonstrating his compassion for constituents down on their luck. The story is told of a time when he drew the winning ticket for a local fundraising drive. He immediately pointed to a person known to be the poorest in the room before immediately placing the ticket back in the box without anyone having seen it. In subsequent elections, Burke received as much as 80 per cent of the vote. He had made the ordinary people of Balga feel important; few politicians have ever managed to identify as closely with the struggles of their constituents as Burke did. But Burke had another side to his character as local member. Continuing to demonstrate a fascination for business deals, he was always coming up with ideas to generate revenue for the party. At one stage he was so keen to start a printing press others in his branch had to curb his enthusiasm. He even probed the possibility of opening a local Chinese restaurant as a means of raising funds for the party. Burke could not contain a restless enthusiasm for mostly hare-brained business ideas. Being a stand-out success as a local member did not mark Burke for future party leadership—quite the reverse. He was criticised by some in the party for his lack of interest in policy development and his unprofessional manner. Wearing a tent-like caftan, which looked like it doubled as his sleeping attire, he once fronted a press conference in the north-west of the state to announce the party’s regional housing policy. There were other instances of unconventionality. Not long after the Tonkin Labor government was defeated in the March 1974 state election, Caucus gathered for a post-mortem. At one point Burke was overheard by a fellow backbencher explaining to Tonkin his views on party fundraising: ‘. . . any business person looking for a government contract—you don’t get 29

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a contract unless you kick into the party.’ It may have been a flippant comment, or an off-the-cuff attempt by a cocky, young local member to present his fundraising credentials, but it left Tonkin and his colleague startled and open-mouthed. It was as well for Burke that he found grassroots electoral work so appealing because the prospects of Labor winning office again during the 1970s were bleak. Burke’s entry into politics mirrored the ascendancy of Sir Charles Court as premier and conservative political strongman of Western Australian.

Square-jawed and unflinching, Court was driven by the possibilities of developing the state’s massive resource base. He would go on to become a legend in his own lifetime for this work. But behind his facade of boundless optimism for Western Australia lay a reactionary as strident as any produced in modern Australian history. Physically imposing in his heyday, Sir Charles developed an authoritarian style of leadership. Even some of his ministers complained about the government being ‘a oneman band’, such was his reputation for interfering in the portfolios of his team. He relished being a polarising figure. As the West Australian once noted, ‘You were either for Sir Charles or you were against him. There was no room in the middle—the critics became ‘‘the knockers’’ and the ‘‘knockers’’ were the enemy.’17 Court’s public utterances and his policies frequently outraged progressives in the state and had the Labor Party constantly on the defensive. At times it appeared that the premier’s understanding of some of the principles of democracy was little more than a veneer. On one occasion, he gave a speech to graduating police cadets in which he warned ‘that the most dangerous enemy they would face was the political or social activist’.18 This was typical of Sir Charles’ divide and rule tactics, leaving Labor to defend the abstract principles of democracy in the face of a premier defending the supposedly ‘higher’ interests of the state. As new Labor leader Ron Davies vainly tried to explain, it ‘was 30

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totally unacceptable and improper in a supposed democracy for people who took action to try to secure political or social change to be described as either dangerous or the enemy’.19 Today Court’s tactics are widely referred to a ‘wedge politics’. Labor was genuinely appalled that Sir Charles could demonise legitimate social protest as being the work of ‘saboteurs’, ‘fifth columnists’, ‘vandals’ and ‘subversives’, sinister figures ‘always lurking in the background, rotting the fabric of society’.20 Yet Court’s attacks on the foundations of democracy were more than rhetorical. In a celebrated case in 1977, he attempted to have Aboriginal people removed from the voting rolls in the Kimberley. When the Bill to do this was brought before the Legislative Assembly in November 1977, a Liberal member justified the measure by arguing that illiterate Aboriginal people ‘were a completely unsophisticated community upon whom the fate of governments should not depend’.21 On this occasion the bill was too odious even for the conservative upper house where it was narrowly defeated. Undeterred, in 1978 the Court government introduced further legislation restricting voting. This time the means were more subtle. Henceforth voters needed to have their electoral forms witnessed by a justice of the peace, clerk of courts or police officer instead of simply another registered voter. As the West Australian commented, ‘the State Government is making it more difficult for disadvantaged people to vote’.22 Aboriginal people, of course, were the single biggest disadvantaged group. Vying with Queensland’s bumptious premier, Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen, for the title of the nation’s most reactionary political leader, Sir Charles also introduced a restriction on freedom of assembly. Under the changes to the Police Act 1892 introduced in 1979, the infamous section 54B, the organisers of any public meeting were obliged to obtain prior approval from an authorised police officer, who was empowered to disallow such meetings on a wide range of pretexts. This crude attempt to quell dissent reflected Sir Charles’ authoritarianism. He harboured a particular dislike for Aboriginal land rights protesters, labelling them ‘stirrers’. By the early 1980s Labor had experienced years of despair over 31

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Court’s policies, his stranglehold over business in the state and his seeming iron grip on power. But Brian Burke was not to be seen in the forefront of opposition to the Court government. In fact he had few declared political positions or factional alliances. However he had for some years been steadily building his influence within the Caucus. Rather than belonging to a faction Burke saw himself as building coalitions across the party. He always thought Kim Beazley was limiting himself by associating too closely with the right wing of the party: ‘He thought what you needed to do in the Western Australia branch was to build coalitions. Brian was always building extraordinary coalitions, leftright coalitions, basically, and they always worked because they were attached to him as a person.’23 Burke’s personality made him a natural networker, and as a result of his father’s experience he had an instinctive distrust of factional groups meeting separately with their own agendas. Burke aimed for the same degree of control Chamberlain had over the party, but he would employ subtler means to achieve this. Even at this early stage of his career Burke looked like he was going to forge his own path in the party. Apart from his personality, he had one distinctive advantage in that he could think outside the political frame. Unlike many of his contemporaries who had stayed at university during the late 1960s and entered Labor politics through campus Labor clubs with their vigorous debates and protests over the Vietnam War, Burke had no interest in politics as a battle of ideas. As he would demonstrate throughout his career, not even his Catholic background provided inspiration. Burke was free to think about the pursuit of power as an end game. A decisive moment in this evolution came in 1977 when he was convicted of drink driving and failing to stop after an accident. ‘I thought I’d die of shame and I thought my political career was over,’ he later explained. ‘But it was a milestone.’ Burke gave up drinking and started to lose weight.24 As he emerged as a key figure in the party during the late 1970s and early 1980s, some people started to notice the skill Burke possessed of attracting loyalists. He was beginning to be known as a ‘collector’ of 32

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people. In fact, this term was used approvingly in John Hamilton’s biography of Brian Burke. Few at the time were aware of the exact dimensions of Burke’s skill in attracting loyalists he thought useful. Some saw it as glibness, his ability to stroke egos. Very few—possibly aided by hindsight—thought they discerned something exceptional: Burke seemed able to understand the emotional triggers in others, assess their strengths and weaknesses, and make effective use of that information. Unwittingly, Hamilton touched on this when he wrote that Burke ‘kept collecting people, motivating and inspiring them and adding them to his machine’.25 However, despite these skills, Burke still had to surmount the hurdle posed by the image many colleagues had of him as a larrikin who lacked the intellectual gravitas for the top job. Norm Marlborough was an early loyalist whom Burke befriended. Affable, engaging but without intellectual pretension, Marlborough was a committed foot soldier for Labor. He and Brian campaigned together in the Pilbara in 1977 and a deep bond was forged, at least on Norm’s side. His colleagues at the Miscellaneous Workers Union heard Marlborough speak in almost reverential terms about his friend Brian. He became so committed to seeing Burke elected premier that his colleagues in the union movement started to suspect he had become a secret source of information for Burke about the comings and goings in the Left of the party.

As Burke was slowly building a political machine, the prospects for Labor were not getting any brighter. This downward drift in party fortunes finally played into Burke’s hands. Leadership changes followed election losses and, after Ron Davies failed to make much of an impression on the electorate in the 1980 state election, a young guard centred around a group of three aspiring future leaders—Arthur Tonkin, Mal Bryce and Burke—began plotting a leadership change. It was at this time Burke began the work of shedding the image of ‘a brash young man’.26 Tonkin and Bryce were both former teachers, left of centre in 33

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their politics and with a special interest in policy. Together with Burke, the trio became known as the ‘Flying Wedge’ for their effective combination of policy and political skills although none could claim majority support in the Caucus. Burke’s most serious rival was Bryce, but as the leadership ‘ambush’ to topple Davies drew closer in September 1981 he struggled with his own ambitions to be leader. It became clear to him that Burke had the edge. Bryce reasoned that Burke’s greater fundraising and media management skills would help get the party across the line. He was acutely aware that the party needed all the forces it could muster because it was just about broke. Calling his supporters together, Bryce persuaded them to throw their lot in behind Burke but not without concern on at least one colleague’s part: ‘. . . this man [Burke] has the capacity to bring the whole shooting gallery down upon us’. Burke’s leadership represented a risk, a risk most in the party were prepared to take. Sensing the uncertainty felt by some of his colleagues and seeking reassurance, Burke approached Arthur Tonkin: ‘Arthur, do you think I can handle this?’ Tonkin replied, ‘Brian your problem will be that you’ll forget who put you here and you won’t consult’.27 Despite the reservations, Burke was elected leader. Bryce became his deputy. There were sound reasons driving the Labor parliamentarians, including Bryce and Tonkin to throw their lot in with Burke despite underlying reservations. They glimpsed the need to fully harness the emerging power of the media, especially television. The early 1980s was still very much a watershed in the application of television to politics. For decades social psychologists had been trying to define ‘public opinion’ and the ways it could be manipulated with catchwords and illusions. Techniques of persuasion were first applied by business through advertising to tap the new mass consumer markets. The field of politics was slower to harness this power. However a decisive shift in ‘selling’ politics occurred in the United States in 1960, sparked by John F. Kennedy’s triumphant performance in the first live televised presidential debate. In Australia, Labor was at the forefront of applying these techniques. Don Dunstan’s election in South Australia in 1970 was based on the 34

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American formula of sophisticated opinion research and extensive television advertising. A high-water mark came with federal Labor’s 1972 ‘It’s Time’ election campaign with its very memorable theme song, ‘presidential’ promotion of Gough Whitlam and catchy television commercials. Following Whitlam’s defeat at the polls in 1975 and 1977, a renewed effort was made by the Labor Party to develop better marketing strategies. In Western Australia, the late 1970s were a transitional time in political marketing. Both the major parties were led by the last of the ‘straightbacks’ when it came to electioneering: Charles Court and Ron Davies had both grown up in the era before television and were not comfortable using the medium. In 1981, when Burke claimed the leadership of the Labor Party in Western Australia, political marketing was virtually non-existent in the state. In choosing Burke for leader, the party took a decisive leap into this emerging but shadowy world. As one of his colleagues acknowledged, it was Burke’s mastery of the media and particularly television that eventually convinced people that he was the best option for leader. He was the first television journalist to lead a major party in Australia. Burke himself understood that this was the role he was to play, saying to his deputy Mal Bryce, ‘are we happy and agreed—I’m responsible for image and marketing; you’re responsible for policy and substance’. The ALP had turned to a media performer and salesman to be its saviour and many in the wider party started to believe that Burke could deliver Labor from the wilderness. Helping smooth the way with the party rank-andfile was brother Terry, ‘Mr Fixit’, ‘dealing behind the scenes for the party and his brother’.28 Gaining the leadership had a decisive impact on Burke’s approach to politics. He was sensitive about his image as a knockabout larrikin. The issue was discussed in one of his early Shadow Cabinet meetings as leader. He had asked a colleague to prepare a paper outlining the type of persona he should show in public. He also needed strategies in order to deliver on his marketing role, but he saw the need for a longer-term vision as well—how to stay in power to cement the Burke name in history. The task of changing his persona was implemented straightaway. 35

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Determined to shed his nickname, ‘Fat Albert’, Burke lost weight— ‘almost to the point of looking anorexic’. He tidied up his dress by shedding his casual clothes for dark business suits, requested not to be photographed with a cigarette in his hand and continued not to drink. According to one commentator, ‘He became a Billy Bunter type, who looked as though he had been dressed in Savile Row’.29 Having observed Burke acquire the public image to fit the status of an aspiring premier, many commentators thought he had ‘deliberately emulated the style of a Liberal predecessor, Charles Court’.30 Overseeing the successful makeover were two media experts. His first press secretary, Ron Barry, helped polish Burke as a media performer while Burke’s old boss at Channel 7, Darcy Farrell, completed the job. As a media consultant, the slightly built and smart-looking Farrell was without peer in the country. With years in television behind him, he was a master at the art of image making. He saw the raw talent in Burke when many others still thought of him as a slob without the intellectual rigour to be premier. It was Farrell who coined the slogan ‘The Best New Leader in Australia’ to take into the 1983 election campaign. In the leadup to this campaign, Burke even practised smiling for the camera with his lips together to hide a small gap between his front two teeth.31 Burke’s most formidable challenge, however, was to devise a strategy to overcome the entrenched power of the Liberals. Even in the early 1980s, the Liberal Party seemed impregnable: Sir Charles Court provided robust leadership, the state’s electoral system was rigged to favour conservative, rural electorates and Perth’s ‘old money’ was a reliable source of election funds. Burke understood, as did all exasperated Labor parliamentarians, that these three advantages would require a special effort to counter. He also understood that Court’s modus operandi was to polarise the community around controversial issues. Notable applications of this strategy occurred in the field of industrial relations where he would find ways to ignite strikes around election times; in his opposition to Aboriginal land rights; in the raising of law and order issues; and in his denigration of the environment movement and welfare.32 How could a 36

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bunch of untried Labor enthusiasts match these tactics, let alone the Liberals’ entrenched position in the business community? Burke discovered the answer from an unlikely source: the career of American populist Huey Long. The pixie-faced, spindly framed and bulbous-nosed Long was governor of Louisiana and, later, a United States senator during the 1930s. By the 1970s his star had long faded so he was an unlikely political hero, but in his heyday he built one of the largest mass followings in American history, sparking intense debate in his lifetime and after as to whether he was a populist or a demagogue. He had a reputation for political graft and his eventual assassination by an irate opponent only served to enhance his place as one of the most controversial of America’s politicians. In a state known for its colourful politics, the contours of which had been shaped by its unique combination of French, Spanish and British influences and its conservative, heavily Catholic, rural culture of backwoods and bayous, Long shed his middle-class origins to become a champion of the Louisiana poor. Genuinely committed to social reform, he built a career advocating the issues of this constituency during the Great Depression, promising employment-generating construction of roads and bridges and free school books for children. But it was his approach to winning and maintaining power that distinguishes him in American political history. For Long, achieving power was a cynical art form. It is unclear when Burke first became attracted to Long’s story. In light of the populist approach he took in his seat of Balga, Burke may have had Long as an early political influence. But it was Kim Beazley who was responsible for deepening Burke’s interest in the Louisiana governor. He gave his friend a copy of T. Harry Williams’ Pulitzer prize–winning biography. Beazley thought it a fitting gift because Burke had frequently spoken to him about his affection for Long. Several colleagues testify to Burke’s attraction to Long. As Mal Bryce acknowledges, ‘It was simply common practice for Burke to bring the biography into Parliament. It was the most read book I had ever seen him read over a long time working closely with him. He was not a 37

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voracious reader but he was a voracious reader of Huey Long.’ Arthur Tonkin also recalls Burke’s obvious enthralment with Long at the time he came to the leadership: ‘It was so obvious. He would come into the Chamber and he would be reading it [the biography] and he would be highly amused and appreciative of Long’s style. He would quote him and he obviously thought Long had the model to run things.’33 As Burke made his way from the first to the last page of Williams’ 800-page study, it would be surprising if he was not struck by the similarities between himself and the Louisiana populist. Like Burke, Huey came from a large family and was known in his childhood as a ‘smart alec kid’. Early on he discovered he could manipulate people and unswayed by any fundamental political philosophy, he discovered a talent for selling and entrepreneurship. Burke likely sensed the same contradiction in Long as in himself: the yearning for riches while being personally sympathetic to ‘battlers’. And like Long, Burke even had an older brother who acted as protector. Apart from these striking personal similarities, Burke was drawn in by Long’s approach to politics. He learned many lessons from the ways in which Long, nicknamed the Kingfish, transformed a fascination with power into a system for cementing political control. Like Long, Burke was not interested in ideology. His aim was to build a popular base for power. Long’s system was as clever a quest for power as has been seen in a modern democracy. Burke learned from the master that power is based on exploiting charisma, making grandiose promises for reform, building a machine based on patronage, manipulating people to your own ends, personally identifying with ordinary people, making up your own rules, quashing the opposition, using the press as the medium to influence mass opinions, and operating as a master salesman. Long’s mastery of the art of political communication achieved legendary status. It was claimed that on the hustings he could: . . . go out in front of a Louisiana crowd, in the Catholic part of the state, and convince them that he had Catholic grandparents. He’d tell 38

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a story of hitching up the horse to the wagon to drive his grandparents to church every Sunday. After one of these speeches, one of his aides said, ‘Huey, I didn’t know you had Catholic grandparents.’ And Huey said, ‘Don’t be a damned fool, we didn’t even have a horse.’34 Even this attempt at self-deprecating humour masked the truth. Far from poor, the middle-class Long family owned horses and land and, as the quote reveals, Long was forever wrapping himself in selective and shrewd lies. However, through Long’s biographer Burke was also exposed to some uncomfortable lessons about his idol’s career. Huey’s ruthless populism was built on the strategy of fighting the ‘Big End’ of town to advance the cause of ordinary working people, the types Long labelled ‘the little guys’. But such a modus operandi began to blur ends and means. Long’s career, Burke would have read, was a morality tale of political aspiration: He wanted to do good, but to accomplish that he had to have power. So he took power and then to do more good seized still more power, and finally the means and the end became so entwined in his mind that he could not distinguish between them, could not tell whether he wanted power as a method or for its own sake. He gave increasing attention to building his power structure, and as he built it, he did strange, ruthless things.35 The passage is a mirror of Burke’s own career. For Burke, Long demonstrated the tactics and strategy needed to be a successful political leader—how to win over the community. As he moved closer to gaining power, Burke absorbed all the Long formula he thought useful. In the years ahead, there was a strong reflection in Burke’s behaviour of many of Long’s dictums, but Burke’s own idiosyncrasies played a part as well. In common they had their attraction to power as the ultimate goal. As Kim Beazley explains, ‘What Burke was interested in was a Labor Party structure that could deliver permanent power.’36 39

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Such an aspiration, of course, does not make Burke unusual. Yet the way in which he went about attaining and maintaining power revealed flashes of political ingenuity, innovation and, of course, audaciousness. But, as Beazley reflects, Burke was not sufficiently conscious of his cleverness to exercise sufficient caution in the ways in which he went about his quest.

Long’s was hardly a strategy that Burke could proclaim in public. He would have to take a conventional approach during the lead-up to, and in the conduct of, the 1983 election campaign. Nonetheless he hit the ground running, promoting his leadership through his personality. Demonstrating his talent for gaining media attention was a full page feature in the Daily News in November 1982. He succeeded in captivating, if not capturing, the watching journalists: 10.45 a.m. He makes a short, forcefully delivered speech that has reporters’ pens moving frantically . . . 11.05 a.m. He is at his desk in Parliament House, jacket off and his back to the sweeping view over the fountains and freeway to the Barracks and the city. Marie, his personal secretary, glamorous in slacks and impeccably cut shirt, brings in the morning post . . . followed a few minutes later by coffee, this time in a silver plated pot drunk from finest quality government issue china cups.37 The article depicts Burke as a man with airy charm, a man of action, a man with the bearing of a premier. ‘Fat Albert’ is no longer. But buried within the article are unexamined indicators of his personality: ‘A wallwide pin board contains just two items—a stamp dealer’s card and the homily: “There is only one success—to be able to spend your life in your own way.” “Burkey’s Persuader”—a well-used mallet—is mounted in a corner.’ In parliament Burke was not especially forceful in attacking the 40

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Court government. Yet in November 1981 he went on the offensive over the failure of the government to properly account for the travel expenses of the chairman of the Metropolitan Water Board. Burke pressed the government, arguing that the unaccounted for $8000 breached two fundamental principles of democracy: the need for government accountability to the parliament and the need for members of parliament to give a proper accounting of taxpayers’ funds. He even accused Sir Charles Court of masterminding a whitewash of the affair by claiming key documents in the case had been stolen. Ramming home his point, Burke made a final rhetorical flourish—he likened the government’s attempts to evade its responsibilities to the Watergate scandal. Leaked documents, he warned the government, had brought down Richard Nixon: ‘If that was not the lesson of Watergate, what was the lesson of Watergate?’38 A decade later, Burke was involved in his own travel rorts case. On this occasion he scored a point against Court, but Burke mostly concentrated his efforts on gaining ascendancy over the media, not parliament. With his image bolstered, he approached the 1983 election with confidence. The party promoted five broad themes: the leadership provided by Burke, a new young team to take Western Australia forward, policies to combat the recession, regional development and plans to diversify the economy. Binding these themes together was a promise to develop closer relations with business. In its development phase in the early 1980s, Burke’s pro-business policy borrowed from the ideas associated with corporatism embodied in Japan’s economic success—‘its unique government–business relationship which reflected the Japanese capacity for agreeing on goals and carrying them through with purpose and dedication’.39 Corporatism seemed an appropriate model for Western Australia because its resources-intensive economy was subject to cycles of boom and bust, forcing government to develop other sectors of the economy. There was also a view, put forcefully to the Labor Party, that Western Australia was badly disadvantaged through lack of capital investment because the nation’s financial clout 41

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was located in the eastern states, forcing the state’s business leaders to go cap in hand for development assistance.40 And, of course, federalism left the states financially dependent on the Commonwealth. Burke’s task was to sell the policy and he did this in a novel way. He spoke of Western Australia taking a more ‘imaginative, supportive and entrepreneurial role in the development of its resources’; of having equity in projects and profit-sharing arrangements with business. The aim was to make the state more economically and financially independent.41 The policy was essentially a counter-offensive to Sir Charles Court’s dominance on economic issues. Throughout the 1960s and 1970s he had monopolised the economic debate, creating the impression that ‘he single-handedly brought every new industry into the State; that the well-spring of investment . . . would dry up if ever he and his colleagues left office’.42 But Labor’s policy undertaking was of a general, forward-looking nature linking small and large business with emerging technologies in the quest to develop overseas markets for Western Australia. It was not designed to be specific to any business sector, let alone any specific group of individuals. Yet it is reasonably clear that Burke had sketched in his mind the outlines of a very different application of the policy than had been endorsed by the party in the lead-up to the 1983 election. Crucially, he saw in the emerging business-orientated language of Labor new ways to exploit power. No matter how strong Labor Party policy may have been, it looked as if the party was destined to be condemned to opposition unless it could match the Liberals’ election funds. This pragmatic realisation seems to have been the starting point of Burke’s own plans for closer relations with business. If he could get business on side, he could begin to make approaches for donations. But who to approach? In Burke’s mind there was never really a choice. Social class dictated part of his reasoning. Well into his term as premier, it was common knowledge that ‘the old families of the Perth establishment and traditional backers of the Liberal Party have remained just as inaccessible as they have ever been to the Boy From 42

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Balga’.43 Religion, too, played its part in Burke’s choice of fundraising opportunities. His ingrained Catholic tribalism also made it impossible for him to contemplate trying to forge any connections with the Perth establishment. Quite the contrary, he gave every impression of wanting to dish out a message to Perth’s ‘old money’, just as Huey Long had done when he by-passed the Louisiana establishment, known as the ‘Old Regulars’. The depth of Burke’s antipathy to Perth’s ‘old money’ is highlighted in a story told by Labor parliamentarian Tom Stephens. It occurred just after Burke had been elected premier but is indicative of his underlying attitudes. Representing the Kimberley and Pilbara regions in the upper house, in early 1983 Stephens had been introduced to Alistair (later Lord) McAlpine, prominent member of the British Conservative Party and favourite of Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. McAlpine, who had developed a fondness for Australia, attracted Stephens’ interest with his plans to develop Broome. Disturbed when he heard of McAlpine’s concerns over the power wielded in the business community by Alan Bond and rising entrepreneur Laurie Connell, both of whom he distrusted, Stephens sought a meeting with Burke to discuss McAlpine’s issues. Immediately Burke’s tribal Catholic hackles were raised and he let fly: ‘Don’t come with a message from some trumped up British aristocrat, Pommy bastard, prick who’s denigrating our local business community . . . and you can go tell him that from me.’ Reflecting on this encounter over the years, Stephens saw that Burke’s antipathy to the establishment had very deep roots. Burke shared an attitude still widespread amongst many Australian Catholics, even in the early 1980s, that ‘verged on reciprocal contempt for the old money types, who were viewed as anti-Catholic as well as anti-Labor and anti-working class’.44 Burke was clearly looking for people who operated outside these closed circles. For years the Liberal ‘blue bloods’ had kept at arm’s length the new rising players in business, and none more so than Sir Charles Court, who manifested the establishment’s distrust and disquiet. The hapless Ray O’Connor, who took over the reigns of government in 1982 on the retirement of Sir Charles, overturned Court’s policy of keeping 43

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the emerging entrepreneurs at arm’s length. On one occasion towards the end of 1982, he invited young Liberal backbencher Phillip Pendal to lunch in the parliamentary dining room and found himself sitting directly opposite Alan Bond, who was holding court with twenty-five business figures. Pendal recalls Bond gesticulating enthusiastically and saying to the assembled group, ‘This is fantastic; look at this. We’re sitting in the dining room of the Parliament of Western Australia, how things have changed. We never got this treatment from Court.’45 Pendal’s is an important recollection—an indication of incipient forces about to emerge. As Bond’s statement at the lunch testifies, mutually coinciding interests, underpinned by a shared outsider mentality, were about to bring together Brian Burke and the entrepreneurs. These rising entrepreneurs wanted access to government and Burke wanted their money for an unprecedented, television-dominated election campaign. It is tempting to think, although we cannot be sure, that as he contemplated his first election campaign as leader, Burke raked over the story of Huey Long’s first tilt at power. In 1924 Long’s rivals for office ‘were given large sums by rich individuals who admired them and hoped to secure something in return . . . In comparison Huey had a very modest campaign chest.’46 Long was beaten. Thus Labor went to the 1983 election with progressive policies and a new, broad pitch to the business community. Burke proved to be a superb salesman with the ability to sell the general economic policy to the electorate while masking his own designs to harness it for political ends which, he convinced himself, would also dovetail with the interests of the state. Just before the 1983 election Burke telephoned Laurie Connell at his beach house in the south-west of the state. Some claim it was the first time the two had spoken, although they may have been aware of each other for some time. On this occasion Burke asked the financier and owner of Rothwells investment bank for a donation to the Labor Party. Burke plied his persuasive powers—he had been trying to get to know people in business, business should not be afraid of his election to office, 44

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he intended to create a healthy environment for business in the state. He elaborated—it was really in the interests of business leaders to see him in office because, as premier, he would develop a closer relationship between them and government. Whether he was hedging his bets or whether he was taken in by Burke’s spin, Connell, a supporter of both the Liberal Party and of free market ideas, agreed to donate $25 000.47 Ever the opportunist, Connell wanted to develop the relationship further and he set up a meeting with Burke through Bob Maumill, a prominent radio personality and mutual friend. Maumill convinced Burke that Connell was the conduit to the rising new business entrepreneurs of the city. According to one account, Burke is said to have told Connell, ‘Laurie, let’s lay the ground rules. Anything we talk about has got to be in the best interests of the people of the state.’48 And so began a relationship that would fatefully change the fortunes of both men, drag many other people into a web of deceit and bring the state of Western Australia into disrepute. Connell’s donation was only one of many that came flooding into the party’s coffers in the lead-up to the election. Burke had an old family friend doing a ring-around. Jack Walsh was one of Perth’s more colourful characters. He was a member of a prominent Catholic family and owner of Walsh’s Menswear Stores. He had close links to Tom Burke. A bear of a man at 195 cm and weighing 150 kg, he was known in the early 1980s as ‘a godfather who stood at the centre of WA politics and business’.49 Walsh had been a brilliant student at university but he was undisciplined and developed a fondness for the races and gambling which brought him into contact with some of the city’s rising entrepreneurs. Generous in spirit, he often outfitted released prisoners in new clothes at the family store. He was solid Labor. It was Walsh ‘who played a pivotal role in winning over his many and varied business contacts to Labor in the run-up to the 1983 election’. A substantial donation of $45 000 was given by mining tycoon and avowed supporter of free enterprise Lang Hancock who, having fallen out with Sir Charles Court, was on a mission to prevent a return of the Liberal government. Handily for 45

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these businesses, the state had no disclosure laws governing donations to political parties. In a letter sent to one prominent Perth entrepreneur, Walsh outlined what could be expected as a donor to Labor: ‘There is absolutely no guarantee that a donation will result in any kind of preferential treatment for the donors should Brian Burke become the Premier, but what I can guarantee is that any point of view that a donor wishes to present to Mr Burke . . . can be presented through his brother Terry . . . and it will be given every consideration. If the matter is important enough, Terry will arrange an appointment with Brian.’50 Terry Burke was very active in his own right in fundraising for the election. Allegations later surfaced in state parliament that Terry and Brian had ‘lunched with people from the other side of the (railway) line’. The reference was to the alleged approach of the two owners of Perth’s illegal casinos—operating out of the inner-city entertainment precinct of Northbridge—to donate $100 000 to the party. The full details surrounding the allegations were not pursued at the time in either the press or parliament.51 Flush with funds, the Labor Party’s 1983 election campaign was the most presidential in the state’s history; it was marked by a ‘cult of personality’ around Burke as leader which had been generated by an unprecedented number of catchy television advertisements. Burke had personalised the election and delivered government to the party. Supporters were wild with enthusiasm after a decade in Opposition. As Mal Bryce recalls, on the morning after the election, ‘People were still on my front lawn as full as boots trying to play cricket as the sun came up.’52 Burke delivered Labor from the wilderness. Buoyed with the adulation of his colleagues and the enthusiasm of the electorate, he was in an unchallenged position as leader. Yet few understood the strategies he had in mind for cementing this power. Too few knew about the shadow cast by Huey Long.

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ON THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF HIS premiership, a still youthful Brian Burke had state and national media in awe of his achievements, and none more so than the Australian’s Greg Sheridan. Sheridan found Burke ‘a most intriguing Premier’. He seemed to be a mould of his own: a Labor leader who talked about wealth creation and entrepreneurialism; a populist who was the darling of the local business set; an advocate of a more efficient public service who spoke of improving the lot of the whole community; a state leader prepared to tackle the federal Labor government; a conservative within the embodiment of Labor tradition. He was, in Sheridan’s eyes, tough and pragmatic with little patience for idealism.1 As far as it went, Sheridan’s assessment highlighted much of what made Burke different as a leader. However Sheridan and most other commentators failed to unearth the real reasons for Burke’s effectiveness as a leader. Behind the charisma was a model of power like none other seen in modern Australia. Burke understood politics as a game to be pursued strategically and ruthlessly. From the example of Huey Long, in particular, he appreciated that the essentials of power were based on patronage and populism. His 47

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background in journalism added another dimension to his approach— leadership was about image and use of the media was all important. Burke also understood that modern politics required excessive amounts of money—power had to be purchased. Lastly Burke understood that pragmatism came before principle for any leader wishing to stay in power, instinctively placing himself very much in the Machiavellian tradition. Machiavelli was the maligned and usually misunderstood early sixteenth century Florentine diplomat. In the period before the unification of Italy, he served a succession of rulers at a time when their very survival was under threat from enemies intent on expansion and from within their own states. Machiavelli gained an unrivalled insight into power politics from his numerous diplomatic missions on their behalf. A master political analyst and a wry observer of human nature, he made a close study of Florence’s greatest potential enemy, Cesare Borgia, distilling what made him such a ruthlessly effective leader, which Machiavelli explained as fearlessness and self-confidence combined with a capacity for deception and manipulation. Borgia was ‘a man who thrived on intrigue, the chess master who moved the pieces rather than take up positions on the board himself ’.2 From these observations, Machiavelli concluded that an effective ruler needed moral flexibility; politics had its own rules and a leader must be both lion and fox. As set out in his classic text The Prince, Machiavelli defended this approach as the only way a leader could uphold the interests of his state. But, down through the ages, Machiavelli’s ideas have been taken up by certain types of political leaders as, simply, an end in themselves: staying in power necessitates pragmatism or, indeed, whatever it takes. Grafted on to his pragmatism was Burke’s observation of the benefits of gaining total power within the ALP as modelled by Joe Chamberlain. Burke’s astute understanding of power in its myriad forms led to a career which lays bare the dark art of politics. However his approach to power cannot be separated from the political system that nurtured him. Politics, and more so in the modern era, values people who are charming, persuasive and dominant. Burke’s particular skill was to understand how the 48

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boundaries of the structures and processes of politics could be pushed to the limit by applying these talents. Charisma is the quality most associated with Burke’s success. It was the glue holding together all other parts of the model. Journalist and avid Burke fan John Hamilton described his extraordinary talent: ‘Whenever he walks down St George’s Terrace people call “G’day Brian” or “G’day Burkie”. Mostly it’s Burkie. Burkie’s a good bloke they keep telling you.’3 Often when addressed by people as ‘Mr Burke’ or ‘Mr Premier’, Burke would rush to say, ‘Call me Brian.’ It was an engaging, self-deprecating gesture. But behind these displays of the ‘common touch’, Burke’s leadership highlights the slippery nature of charisma. The concept of charisma was originally conceived by sociologist Max Weber to apply to leaders of ‘prophetic’ religious movements or ‘expansive’ political movements. Only later was it used as a means of explaining how some democratic political leaders seem to possess a heightened ability to connect with the public. Widely viewed as a gift to those seen to be in possession of it, charisma defines a special relationship between a leader and the public. But as leadership guru James McGregor Burns writes, ‘The word has been so overburdened as to collapse under close analysis.’4 To depict Burke as charismatic obscures as much as it reveals. Burke’s charismatic appeal was based on his exceptional personal skills. He could walk into a room of fifty people and ‘he’d go up to a little child and talk to that child on his or her level and make that child feel good. Move onto an elderly woman and do the same. Move onto a husky footballer and do the same. Move onto a typist in the pool and do the same . . . He had this tremendous ability to operate on the psychological level of each person and that’s a wonderful skill’.5 Those who saw Burke in action were in awe of this power. Trade union official and later parliamentarian Judyth Watson accompanied Burke to the Kalgoorlie ‘two-up’ venue early in his premiership. Intending to recognise the historic role the game had played in the town’s history, the pair were greeted by a horde of people, including a large contingent of older Eastern European men who had been playing the game for decades. When introduced to people he 49

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had met before, Burke’s memory began to operate like a well-organised filing cabinet. He not only remembered their names but also details of their domestic affairs: ‘How’s your mother? She wasn’t well last time we met.’ People loved the attention and Watson left dazzled by his ability to lock away such detailed information.6 Other traits complemented these personal skills. Burke was blessed with an appealing demeanour; he was once described as having ‘all the charm of a talkback host’.7 Shedding his bulge in the early years of his premiership revealed a plain but cherubic face and a faint boyish smile. When required, he could ‘flash the most sincere look imaginable’.8 And then there was his voice. Restrained, it was a subtle but powerful asset. It had a seductive tone—calm, quietly modulated, reassuring. As a public speaker, Burke had a theatrical air. He would occasionally arrive at a function carrying a prepared speech in his hand. Slapping the document down on the table in mock indignation at his advisers, he would open by exclaiming ‘you don’t want me to read this, let me tell you what I really think’. With the audience in the palm of his hands, he would then regale them with a lively, unscripted address. The approach was obviously contrived and well rehearsed—and transparent in hindsight—but the appearance of a premier being candid and open with people was irresistible. Humour was an important factor in his ability to connect with people. As his ministerial colleague Arthur Tonkin recalls, ‘At the many quiz nights he ran, the laughter was more important than the questions. I have never seen such popular quiz nights, not even when the organisers paid celebrities from television to compere the show.’9 He could invoke the same talent in parliament. The public gallery in the Legislative Assembly was often crowded at question time as word spread that laughter could often be heard in that unlikely place when Burke parried questions without notice, even from the Opposition. Part of Burke’s appeal was his unmistakably populist manner. Throughout his premiership he paraded his Housing Commission roots and his large mortgage as if to consciously project an image of an 50

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ordinary bloke. Journalist Matt Price observed: ‘Workers loved ‘‘Burkie’’. He built them soccer clubs and invited them to Government House functions. He employed their sons and daughters, forked out from his own pocket when they got into trouble and appeared to have a genuine affection for ordinary folk.’10 In fact he once almost boasted that his ‘greatest ability is being ordinary in every sense. I vibrate in sympathy with the ordinary person.’11 Burke’s power was not founded simply on his ability to appeal directly to the masses. He also had an uncommon ability to manipulate individuals. In the hands of an able operator this skill can be as deadly as a missile. People will not always be aware they are targets. Burke appreciated that plotting outcomes and fixing problems was much easier if those close to him were rusted-on loyalists. This ability was evident, at least in its embryonic form, in Burke’s teenage years and he consciously deployed it in the early days of his rise to power. Coincidentally, Huey Long had the same talent.12 In unguarded moments, Burke revealed flashes of a more authentic down-to-earth nature. He enjoyed a close relationship with his driver and minder, Vince Shervington, and seemed to identify with him as someone from a less privileged background. Burke sometimes answered the front office telephone in the Premier’s Department suite if he walked past and it was unattended. One of his colleagues who observed this phenomenon marvelled at the way he would address any queries coming from the public without announcing to the caller that they were talking to the premier. Nonetheless, Burke was continually drawn towards interacting with people in ways that would gain maximum loyalty. He made sure he spent time with those who were useful to him; he complemented them on their work, he made them feel they were part of his personal team, ‘Burkie’s team’. He applied this technique to the most senior levels of government. He was the first Western Australian premier to institute fortnightly meetings with principal private secretaries and press secretaries. He would make a grand entrance, sit down and begin complimenting 51

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particular individuals on their efforts. It felt akin to an audience with Father Christmas. Sue Roberts was someone who observed these rituals. Then working as a government press secretary, she reflects that such seemingly commonplace skills made Burke seem especially powerful: ‘It’s only in retrospect that I’ve thought how extraordinary this skill was and how valuable.’13 As one of Burke’s political colleagues acknowledges, most of those around Burke ‘didn’t have a clue how mischievously designed and manipulated [his] charm could be’. Of course Burke preferred to keep quiet the full extent of his ability to attract loyalists. On more than one occasion, for instance, the telephone unexpectedly rang in the Caucus room and Burke was told everything that had just taken place in the corresponding Liberal Party meeting. He tried to keep quiet, too, that he had informants operating within his own party as well. Not everyone could be charmed, however. For the few who could not, Burke used intimidation to create loyalty. One-time ALP colleague Arthur Tonkin recalled: ‘Brian always seemed to me to have the attitude that if you argue against me in this then we are at loggerheads and he really expected you to ignore a principle which was very important to you and if you did then he would look after you in the future and would accommodate you in some way; a kind of bargaining mentality.’14 Some thought Burke kept a notebook of the favours people owed him. Even if this is part of Burke folklore, he did have an extraordinary memory for the favours he’d given and a readiness to call them in when needed. His charismatic appeal was carefully managed through his unprecedented control of the media. In fact his sternest critic, University of Western Australia political scientist Patrick ‘Paddy’ O’Brien, claimed Burke’s ‘first pillar of personal power was the media’.15 His background as a journalist was a crucial asset. As one journalist who observed him closely explained, ‘He understood that the media was a hungry animal and he could feed it to his own advantage.’16 Within the first year of his premiership Burke was acknowledged for his capacity to work the media ‘better than any other Premier’.17 Burke’s continually high ranking in opinion polls was due, in large part, to his ability to portray the simple, 52

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ordinary bloke image—a man from the housing commission suburbs with a mortgage. It was an image bolstered by his young family. Mediashy Sue Burke occasionally informed the public of the couple’s growing family. Several months after Burke became premier she made herself available for a feature article centred on the announcement of her pregnancy with the couple’s sixth child. As always, Sue projected a homely image: ‘During the royal tour of Australia earlier this year, Mrs Burke talked to Princess Diana about their babies.’18 Burke’s weekly radio program, ‘Meet the Premier’, which he instigated with his old friend 6PR announcer Bob Maumill, further projected his image as a man of the people. It had a unique mix of styles once described as a combination of ‘Blue Hills, Dear Del and the 7.30 Report ’. He cleverly developed ‘the common touch all politicians strive for’, by being prepared to talk about his children—all six of them—and the ‘trials and torments of his wife’. But the truly inspired part of the program was the way Burke used it as the equivalent of a ‘columnist’s problem page’. Listeners were invited to write directly to the premier, via the program, and list their problems with government. Before the program went to air, Burke turned on ‘all the powers at his disposal to find instant solutions’. This involved ‘a small army of public servants’ spending ‘huge man hours’ to address each issue. The listeners loved it!19 Burke directly intervened in some of these issues. Behind the scenes, he often negotiated speedier responses from government agencies, particularly in the cases involving people with disabilities. He offered encouragement, for example, to Graham Edwards, later a member of both state and federal parliaments, who returned from the Vietnam War with both legs blown off.

Burke was in the forefront of the new wave of political manipulation of the media that began in the early 1980s. But unlike other political leaders who traded on their ability to deal with the proprietors, Burke traded rewards and favours with journalists and their editors. His skill at influencing 53

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newspapers’ coverage of stories was legendary. On a visit to a metropolitan greyhound race meeting, he got wind that the Sunday paper was going to run a story which displeased him greatly. He telephoned the editor and said to him, ‘Listen mate, do you want a good story? We’re going to decriminalise prostitution.’ Although this was Labor policy at the time, he had not discussed its introduction with any of his colleagues. The next day a parliamentarian who had been with Burke at the races was staggered to read that the prostitution story had pushed the offending story from the front page. This was not an isolated incident. Burke was noted for surveying the first editions of each of Perth’s three daily newspapers and phoning through any complaints he had with headlines or stories to the editors. It was not uncommon to see a change in the second edition. Burke was able to take advantage of changes in the media industry that coincided with his rise to office. The introduction of new technology and a more competitive climate among media outlets meant that a skilled politician had many more opportunities to dictate the news agenda. Burke used his legendary charm on individual journalists. By the time he became premier, Burke knew a great deal about the journalists working the press gallery. Sue Roberts, then with the West Australian, experienced the power of his charm offensives. Burke knew that Roberts was a Labor sympathiser and that she was a single mother going through a painful transition from a recent divorce. Roberts worked on Sundays, when she was the only reporter covering state politics, so most Sundays Burke would ring around 3 p.m. asking for her directly. ‘Hi, just calling in to see what’s what,’ he’d say. Then he’d ask her how she was and how she was coping with her domestic situation. His tone would be sympathetic, even empathetic. Then he would feed her stories about the latest in government hoping that she would work them into stories. As Roberts now reflects, ‘I was useful because he knew that I was a Labor supporter and I was doing the political stories on Sundays.’20 It was also not unknown for Burke to contact a newspaper and personally phone a story through.21 Conversely, it was not uncommon for Burke to intimidate journalists. 54

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A case of his blatant use of this tactic occurred over a seemingly innocuous comment made by the West Australian journalist Mark Thornton to a Burke press secretary. He told Burke’s minder that he had heard from a senior policeman that the premier and the head of the Teachers’ Credit Society were friends and dined together every Friday. The Credit Society was then in the news and later became embroiled in a government rescue bid. No doubt, in Burke’s mind it was a sensitive topic, but his reaction was savage. He rang Thornton demanding to know the police officer’s name; then he rang the chief-of-staff of the West, demanding the same information. When he could not get an answer he rang unnamed senior contacts in the police to complain. A few hours later the police visited the West’s offices and interviewed Thornton. Only some time later did Burke ask police to discontinue their inquiries.22 More commonly, Burke sent one of his closest media advisers to cajole journalists who did not toe the government line. To bolster his own media strategy, Burke created a taxpayer-funded media machine to oversee his government’s public relations. Shortly after winning office, he established the Government Media Office (GMO) and, in so doing, broke new ground. Burke centralised the ministerial press secretaries, who had previously worked out of the ministers’ offices, in the GMO which was located within the premier’s own department. He had them all sign employment contracts binding them to him personally and then he set about expanding the office. At its peak it employed sixteen journalists and fifteen support staff at a cost of $1 million a year.23 Most of the new staff were hand-picked by Burke. He relished in his creation. The GMO was located two floors below the premier’s office, and Burke would often pay a visit on Friday afternoons. Usually sporting a grin, he would say, ‘I’ve got the best newsroom in Perth.’ Burke’s charm made the staff feel they belonged to a special team. Part of the work of the GMO was to monitor coverage of the government in the media. This helped the government stay informed about the impact of its decisions on public opinion. It also helped the government to respond quickly to any criticism of it anywhere in the state. The 55

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Liberal Opposition was incensed by Burke’s media empire—a ‘propaganda machine’ which would have ‘pleased Goebbels’, they frothed.24 A measure of Burke’s mastery of the media was his impact on the Opposition. Liberal upper house frontbencher Phillip Pendal recalls the reaction of his party to the Burke phenomenon. Realising they were in a new ball game, the Shadow Cabinet went scurrying to ‘all sorts of finishing schools for politicians’. Frantic to play catch-up, they had coaching from working journalists who tutored them on the use of the ‘twenty-second grab’ for television, and employed public relations consultants to instruct them on presentation. They even brought in a colour consultant. Her expertise involved placing a sample of fabric under the chin of each member of the Shadow Cabinet to highlight how the colour of clothes changed the complexion. Some Opposition members thrived in the new demands of media and politics, but many floundered. A former journalist himself, Pendal was one of those who relished the acquisition of new media skills. Subsequently he watched Brian Burke’s performances on television with heightened admiration: ‘I started to understand what this new phenomenon was.’25 The ‘new’ phenomenon was an ideal environment in which the secret deals of WA Inc could thrive undetected. Only a few journalists emerged from those years with the ideals of their profession intact. But Burke’s power base went beyond his largely successful attempts to control the media. He built a virtual empire on personal patronage. Few, if any, Australian leaders have paid such assiduous attention to shoring up their position with loyalists. While Burke could never exercise full control over his Cabinet, he imposed his influence on the two other centres of power: the bureaucracy and the party machine. Burke had the Huey Long example to confirm the importance of controlling the bureaucracy: To carry it [his program] through he would need to have at his disposal every reward he could lay his hands on. Indeed, he decided, he would have to have control of the major share of the state patron56

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age. Accordingly, in the months after his inauguration he moved to take over the various boards and agencies that administered the state’s business, every one of which provided a number of juicy jobs. Previous governors had attempted to exercise some influence over these boards, but none had aspired to the absolute control that Huey reached for—nor had they acted with such ruthless skill.26 Long’s was a potent model for Burke, who evolved patronage into an art form. When he became premier, Burke was handed a new instrument with which to wield his influence. As part of Labor Party policy to modernise government, it created a specialised policy section in the Premier’s Department. Before this development, the Premier’s Department had been little more than a post office. The establishment of the premier’s own central office of support was the first phase of politicising the structures of government in Western Australia. Some of the new appointees Burke brought into government were attracted by his charisma, some by the excitement of being involved in a Labor government after so long in the wilderness. Others were simply attracted by the power and status gained by working for Burke. Burke is credited with having the knack of selecting those who would be grateful for a substantial leg-up in their careers. This group ‘didn’t feel that they were appointed as part of a great Labor movement but rather as personal loyalty to Brian’.27 In his immediate circle were people so intensely loyal to Burke that they were given authority to act virtually in his name. Prominent among these was Kevin Edwards, who became head of Burke’s Department of Premier and Cabinet. The lightly built dynamo had an appetite for power. His authority ranged right across the public service where he conveyed instructions and directions from the premier, a role that earned him the description ‘de facto Premier’.28 The first group to directly benefit from Burke’s patronage were his personal staff who had been with him in Opposition. Close friend and political colleague Julian Grill later reflected on this: ‘In retrospect, however, it is hard to imagine more meteoric career paths for a group of 57

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highly talented but quite moderately paid staffers. Before Brian Burke had departed from parliament they were all in senior positions within government. Their career paths were case book studies of how quickly those close to the king could rise.’29 Grill’s reference to monarchy may be more than incidental, because Burke’s system of promoting close colleagues carried strong echoes of the same ancient system of patronage that Long had exploited. As historian Marc Bloch has reminded us, ‘To seek a protector, or to find satisfaction in being one—these things are common to all ages.’30 Reaching its apogee in feudal times, ties of mutual dependence worked for both powerful men and their loyalists. As Bloch writes, a powerful man could not maintain prestige or fortune ‘except by securing for himself, by persuasion or coercion, the support of subordinates bound to his service’. Similarly, ordinary people wishing to protect their own interests and careers ‘could do no better . . . than attach [themselves] to someone more highly placed’.31 Patronage is not supposed to thrive under democratic processes of equal opportunity and accountability, yet incoming governments have long offered ‘jobs for the boys’. But Burke’s stacking of the public service was audacious by any modern standards particularly in terms of its scale, lack of due process, absence of appointees’ relevant qualifications and the degree to which Burke directed and oversaw the process. Only a few in the press worried about what was taking place. In fact, under the cover of glowing media coverage of his government, the new premier moved quickly to build a virtual empire of personal power. Old friends and colleagues from Channel 7 were catapulted onto his personal staff or given lucrative consultancies. High-paying public service jobs were also doled out to a number of academics. Prominent unionists were given sinecures and family friends offered postings in government. Importantly, all government agencies involved in business-related enterprise had Burke loyalists installed to head them up. It is estimated that in the first eighteen months of Burke’s premiership, he personally made approximately 250 new appointments.32 Burke was particularly active in interfering in appointments to the senior ranks 58

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of the police. He believed that the force had been anti-Catholic and dominated by Masons. He intended to reform it. There was ‘one big blue’ about certain police officers seen to be close to the Liberal Party who had their promotions ‘held up’. Consequently Burke divided opinions among police officers; there were ‘many, many coppers who hated Burke’. In fact, a senior police officer acknowledged to the Royal Commission into WA Inc that ‘there had been political interference in the police force from time to time’, causing resentment in the ranks of officers.33 Burke also used patronage to bolster his support within the party organisation. He is alleged to have stacked his ministers’ offices with hand-picked right-wing Catholics who, in turn, acted as Burke loyalists in the branches. Arthur Tonkin took great exception to this practice. Interviewed by Western Australia’s State Library as part of its oral history project, he said: ‘Now that’s a very cynical use of taxpayers’ money to employ these twenty people, some of whom are quite incompetent, merely to bolster up the branches, to stack the branches in favour of his rightwing unity faction. You’ve got a perversion of the Party. It was a great movement of ideals. Now it’s just something for Brian to play with.’34 Burke relished his ability to hand out patronage. According to Tonkin, ‘Sometimes Brian didn’t worry if people could do the jobs. He appointed them because he liked to be Big Brother. He loved to strut among people and say, ‘‘look at what I’ve done for you’’.’35 In some cases, Burke’s helping hand lifted mid-level career public servants to director level without an interview. Burke loyalists were appointed to all the key agencies at the centre of WA Inc deals. At the time few outside the party noticed Burke was building a system of personal patronage. Within the party, he was challenged from time to time about his so-called ‘Catholic Mafia’. One critic of Burke’s system of patronage was Jim McGinty, a senior union official and later a Labor leader and attorney-general in the Gallop and Carpenter governments. McGinty’s power base was in the party’s Left and he and Burke fell out on a range of issues. He is reported to have expressed concern over the way Burke stacked the government with loyalists, interpreting this ‘as the 59

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creation of a private power base to ensure arguments over tactics and Party platform could easily be controlled by Burke’.36 Today McGinty recalls Burke’s patronage as the stuff of legend: ‘He would butter people up, offer them a seat in Parliament and offer ten people the same seat. He would flatter them; tell them how good they were . . . There was always an offer of patronage which managed to seduce a very large number of people.’37 Burke’s patronage changed the nature of government in Western Australia. The vast stacking of the public service, combined with his close relationships with business figures who acted as ex-officio advisers to government, created a new power elite in the state. Burke, himself, did not shy away from announcing his intentions in this regard, once explaining: ‘There will be a new order in this state and an elite of the able. That’s what will come to pass as quickly as I am able to make it happen because I believe that’s the salvation of this state and the salvation of this country.’38 Cementing the links between this new elite and government was Burke’s creation, the John Curtin Foundation, which was essentially a fundraising body for the Labor Party. Vice patrons of the foundation included Bond, Laurie Connell, John Roberts from Multiplex, Sir James McCusker, the head of the Town and Country WA Building Society, mining magnate Ric Stowe and former Lord Mayor of Perth Sir Ernest Lee-Steere. Described in the local press at the time of its establishment as being supported by the ‘biggest and richest of Perth’s magnates’, it would be merely the public facade of Burke’s fundraising activities. To further cement his power, Burke used patronage to become the dominant influence within the Labor Party itself. He had observed Joe Chamberlain’s near iron grip over the party. As the example of Chamberlain showed, power came from being head of the most powerful faction. Although his ties were with the party’s right wing, Burke set about to control the party by forming coalitions. He developed a long-term and integrated strategy to control who was elected to parliament and, as a consequence, who would come into the ministry. Under party rules, decisions on preselection were made by the State Executive. In turn, 60

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membership of the State Executive was made up of a number of delegates elected by the branches and a larger number representing the unions. Burke sought and gained strong influence over both. To maximise the number of loyal delegates from the branches, Burke enlarged the community development approach he had modelled in his Balga electorate. As premier, he actively gave land grants to build club facilities to community organisations, especially in the ethnic communities, supplemented with government grants to get infrastructure built. The grateful members of these groups were then encouraged to join the ALP, often, it is alleged, with the added incentive of having their membership fees paid. Burke was fortunate in having a majority of unions within his rightwing unity faction but nonetheless he used his formidable personal skills to secure loyal support from many of these unions. He also forged an alliance with influential and militant unionist Kevin Reynolds. The two came together after Burke saved the Builders’ Labourers Federation (BLF) from deregistration in Western Australia in 1986. At the time the BLF was widely condemned because of the corrupt activities of its general secretary, Norm Gallagher, who was jailed in 1985 for receiving secret commissions from employers.39 At the time Burke rescued his union, Reynolds was in the process of establishing himself as one of the key players in the Western Australian labour movement. A ‘larger than life’ unionist, Reynolds acted as one of the chief supports when Burke’s reputation collapsed after the WA Inc Royal Commission and gave crucial assistance when Burke came out of prison. He was an unlikely lifelong confidant to Burke. Reynolds was the product of a violent family background. His father drank himself to death while his mother held the family together.40 Yet a shared interest in power and similar anti-establishment personalities brought them together. Burke would naturally be attracted to ‘a blue-collar smart alec and . . . a clever one at that’.41 Over the years Burke’s opponents have seized upon what many regarded as an unholy alliance between the two—one from the Right of the party and the other from the Centre—and attacked Burke for forging it. But the alliance between the two was clever politics. 61

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Thus, when it came to State Executive preselection meetings, Burke had a strong influence over who went into parliament and was in a position to direct their activities when required because he also exerted control over their future preselection. The icing on the cake was Burke’s ability to direct campaign money to favoured candidates through his legendary fundraising skills. In these ways most roads in Western Australian Labor politics lead to the premier. According to Jim McGinty, then head of the Miscellaneous Workers Union, Burke managed to get the entire ALP, with the exception of the two Left-dominated party organs the ‘Missos’ and the Trades and Labor Council, ‘to be part of his juggernaut’. Longstanding senior Labor official Michael Thorn reflects on his command over party processes: ‘Burke was conscious of the need to control the Party numbers at all levels. By and large he managed to control the agenda. He was able to stop the State Executive from passing resolutions critical of the government through a large block of right-wing votes.’42 Of course Burke had played a significant role in engineering the infiltration of such factional supporters into the party. The impact on Burke of this degree of power is harder to understand. From McGinty’s perspective, ‘The more power he amassed, the more charismatic he became because people knew he could deliver.’43 But even though he ruled over the party, the power he wielded did not stop him harbouring suspicions about the influence of others. He managed to sideline the left wing of the party, and even though his critics were few and tepid in their critique of his leadership, Burke saw as enemies all those that were not ‘120 per cent’ Brian Burke. The few who dared confront him faced a tirade of abuse followed by a tactic of being ignored. Tonkin recalled with scorn: ‘If anyone really upset him, then his temper was very, very powerful.’ In fact, he recalled one incident when he upset Burke in Cabinet whereupon his leader ‘indulged in a most irrational tirade against me in a personal sense’. He was shouting abuse so freely that he shocked other Cabinet ministers at the table. Of course most people never got that treatment because they never stood up to him. The few who did were given the cold shoulder. 62

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He would refuse to talk to them for months at a time, unless he was absolutely forced to.44 Despite displaying his petulance to his Cabinet colleagues from time to time, Burke never gained full control over them. Many of the ministers were talented politicians with their own well-developed agendas, and much of the day-to-day implementation of policy was left to them. Yet Burke developed strategies to get his way in Cabinet when it was important for him to do so. His tactic was to control its agenda through the media. Tonkin recalled: If the Premier wants something to happen, he just makes sure his wishes are leaked to the press first. This became an art with him. So that there would be an article in the media that said it is believed that the Premier is keen on having so-and-so done, and then you meet Monday morning, and the only way you can disagree with what the Premier wants is to really repudiate him publicly and it was always perceived that that would be electorally damaging and so the Premier got his way.45 Burke set out to gain complete ascendancy over the Opposition as well. A key part of the Burke style, also influenced by the example of Huey Long, was to engage in exaggerated attacks on opponents. Long knew the value of destroying an enemy; it was part of his cool, calculating strategy.46 Natural instinct may have propelled Burke in the same direction but reading about Long’s career may also have driven him to these attacks, recalled by one member of the Opposition: ‘Every time I went into the Legislative Assembly, day or night, I would witness another execution going on; ‘‘Burkie’’ chopping into one of our people. He was able to reduce us to a rabble.’ Burke’s brutal ascendancy was mostly based on his fluent and incisive command of language but he also had the ability to master a complex brief almost instantly. One colleague recalls passing him a five-page set of briefing notes on a short car ride to Parliament House. He casually 63

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glanced over them and minutes later was on his feet in the chamber speaking on the topic having re-ordered the notes into a more logical and compelling case. Among the Opposition were well-educated, articulate and intelligent members but, as one backbencher reflected, Burke ‘just wiped the floor with them as though they were a flannel in the bathroom’.

Despite his dominance, the specifics of Burke’s political beliefs were only occasionally tested. His lack of interest in policy during his years in Opposition was noted by many of his colleagues as was his admission on accepting the leadership of the party that his role would centre on salesmanship and media relations. He was variously described as a right-wing Catholic, a ‘pragmatist who stretched traditional Labor philosophy’,47 or a populist. All these labels are imprecise and, while Burke has elements of each, none on their own explains the way he obtained and used power. His Catholic faith, for example, seems to be the source of his strong opposition to the death penalty, which he abolished, and not much else. Twice during his premiership Burke offered dismissive statements about his Catholic beliefs. During a campaign against pornography in 1984, he made this unguarded comment to an evangelical minister: ‘I leave the going to Church to my wife. I run the country.’48 In 1986 Burke gave a long tape-recorded interview to University of Western Australia academic ‘Paddy’ O’Brien. In answer to the question ‘Are you a practising Catholic?’ he replied: ‘No, I am not a practising Catholic.’ There was a pause while the premier was caught seemingly reflecting on the implications of his answer. He offered a correction: ‘Well, I suppose I am partly a practising Catholic.’ But even this answer needed the premier’s further qualification: ‘I am only a partly practising Catholic because I chose not to regularly attend mass when I became completely disenchanted with what I saw as the selfishness of the ruling junta of the Church at the time and so I consciously decided I wasn’t going to join in that.’49 Nonetheless, Burke frequently signed off on phone calls to some of his Catholic friends with ‘God bless’. 64

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As he became the most popular figure in Australian politics, Burke attracted increasing national interest. Greg Sheridan, a journalist with the Australian, referred to Burke as a populist. He meant this to be complimentary, seeing Burke as someone who ‘often talks about helping the average family’.50 The term is ambiguous. Historically, populism has been used to define political leaders who stand up for ordinary people by appealing ‘to deep-seated resentments against corporate interests and the wealthy’.51 Burke’s advocacy of ordinary people’s interests—while often sincere—was never articulated in such oppositional terms, although he was skilled at understanding and reflecting prevailing social attitudes and prejudices. In describing Burke as a populist, Sheridan was referring more to Burke’s style as a leader: ‘Like other successful populist political leaders, Mr Burke exudes a rough, easy-going, friendly charm.’ On the day Sheridan interviewed the premier, Burke had gone home sick with a cold. But this didn’t stop him from extending to Sheridan an invitation to visit there. In fact, over the years, Burke extended such welcomes to a surprising number of journalists. When Sheridan trundled out to the family home in Balga he found the premier ‘Lying on the lounge, clad in a brown-and-white striped nightshirt, reading some papers. Various of the Burke children were distributed around the house, the cricket was on the television in the background, the phone rang almost incessantly and the charming Mrs Burke made everyone cups of tea.’52 Sheridan was not the only journalist to come away from such encounters keen to sing the praises of Burke as a man of the people. Burke was in the forefront of those who employ what is now commonly called a populist political approach. He was excessively poll driven, drawing regularly upon what, in the early 1980s, was still an emerging industry—opinion polling. By the early 1980s the ALP’s enthusiasm for opinion polling centred around an innovator in the industry, Rod Cameron, and his company ANOP Market Research. Cameron, whose sympathies were pro-Labor, helped politicians turn the guesswork of divining public opinion into a science. A ‘law’ of politics was 65

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being quietly written: ‘Do the market research and then on the basis of the findings, maximise the positive findings and minimise the negative ones.’53 As one journalist wrote of Burke’s conversion to this new form of politics, ‘Pollsters checked every electoral mood. Survey results replaced the party platform.’54 In addition, Burke was one of the first politicians to realise the political potential to be exploited through identification with sport. His only rival in this was Bob Hawke. The catalyst for both was the America’s Cup win in 1983 and its defence in Fremantle in 1987. Burke poured huge resources into exploiting the lead-up to the event and also went on a spending spree building a range of new sports facilities and establishing the Western Australian Institute of Sport.55 Not surprisingly, Burke disliked fixed ideological positions; he preferred to keep his options open. For this reason, he kept a respectful distance from the party’s official policy of developing closer relations with business, developed prior to the 1983 election and a centrepiece of its pitch to voters. The policy had its origins in models of corporatism then seen to be behind part of the success of Japan, Korea and the Scandinavian countries where there were formalised arrangements between big government, big business and big unions. The early 1980s were a watershed for this type of economic policy. Bursting onto the political scene at this time was the English prime minister, Margaret Thatcher, with her controversial proposals for privatisation and smaller government. Labor parties around Australia, including the Hawke government, were swept up in the maelstrom of debate over privatisation versus government intervention. While federal Labor started to embrace some of the ideas of this newer free-market thinking, Labor in Western Australia had committed itself to the corporatist model whereby government worked in partnership with the private sector. For those on the ideological right of politics, this commitment raised deep suspicions. To them, it was not the role of government to get into bed with business. Burke had some sharp eyes watching over how the party’s policy would take shape. Consequently Burke had to tread his own fine line in this debate. While he came to power with a corporatist policy, he moulded it to suit 66

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his own interests. The vehicle for this was Labor’s proposed Western Australian Development Bank, which Burke turned into the Western Australian Development Corporation (WADC). He couched his support for this proposal in the language of Catholic distributism. Introducing the bill to establish the WADC into parliament in November 1983, Burke spoke in uncharacteristically idealist tones, explaining that ‘it will be the job of the corporation to allow for the participation of average Western Australians by way of subscription in the development of their State and the ownership of the assets that the WA development corporation owns, controls and represents.’ By way of a comparison, he lamented a recent issue of shares in Hamersley Iron Pty Ltd in which ‘the average family man . . . had absolutely no chance to participate’.56 Underpinned by these ideals, WADC might have been the spearhead for Burke to model a ‘third way’ between the free market and traditional Labor-inspired government intervention in the economy. But Burke’s commitment to his Marist Brothers origins proved to be shallow. Its establishment simply wetted Burke’s appetite for business dealings and he could not resist imposing his own style of patronage on its operations. Burke handpicked its head, John Horgan, who seemed to be charmed into being another rusted-on loyalist. The corporation’s activities were granted commercial confidentiality by an act of parliament. In the years ahead it proceeded to develop some notable business deals in cooperation with the private sector, but the profits it generated were small relative to the total state budget. Nevertheless its activities attracted national and international interest as it was seen as embodying some of the best features of corporatism, although it soon became embroiled in publicity surrounding Horgan’s salary. He had become the highest paid public servant in Australia, earning $800 000 a year to run the business arm of the Burke government. The limited success of WADC was not enjoyed by one of its subsidiaries—the Exim Corporation. Established to help Western Australian business ventures develop overseas markets, the Exim Corporation attracted controversy from its inception. In a highly risky move, Burke 67

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hired a recently released prisoner to set it up. Keith Gale had served four years of a thirteen-year sentence for fraud, conspiracy and falsification of accounts arising from the notorious and highly publicised collapse of the Sydney-based Gollin Group, of which Gale was general manager. With doubts surrounding Gale’s expertise and integrity, his appointment has been described as ‘bizarre’.57 Was Burke merely showing Christian compassion when he justified the appointment by saying someone like Gale should not have to wear a mistake for the rest of his life?58 Burke’s involvement in WADC/Exim revealed two very different sides to his make-up. On the one hand he invoked the idealism of sharing the state’s considerable wealth, while on the other he employed a risky, hands-on approach to developing relations with business. However, at the time, almost no-one knew how high risk his involvements with business would become. Privately, Burke was operating a very different game in the world of business; there were secret deals with businessmen with flow-on donations to the Labor Party in unprecedented amounts and which only he controlled. Very few knew this game even existed. As one of his inner circle of press secretaries has commented, ‘He trusted few people absolutely and gave the rest of us the impression that we were close to the fold. We only got to know what we needed to know.’ That Burke managed to keep these dealings with business secret shows consummate skill at deception. Consequently, a small storm broke out when a group of writers came together under the editorship of ‘Paddy’ O’Brien to attack the government for being corporatist with the publication of a book titled The Burke Ambush. Along with journalist Joe Poprzeczny, O’Brien had been trying to understand what had been going on behind closed doors, trying to transform some of his hunches into something more tangible. O’Brien was especially keen to be in the forefront of this endeavour to set the terms of the debate about the Burke government. Something of a swashbuckling character himself and often regarded as a voice of the far Right, O’Brien was prescient in the thrust, if not always the substance, of his criticisms of Burke. The key element of the analysis was a warning of the 68

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possibility of Burke’s government ‘eventually becoming the victim of corruption, since corporatism inevitably leads to a state of corruption’.59 O’Brien believed that the interlocking of economic interests with politics was ultimately designed to ‘consolidate power around the Office of the Premier’.60 Poprzeczny added that corporatism gave a politician ‘the self-satisfying illusion of being a big businessman’.61 Seen at the time as being a partisan attack from the Right, these comments turned out to be astute, though not for quite the same reasons given by its authors. Their attack was based on opposing any formal relationship between government and business, however legitimate it might appear in public. Neither they, nor anybody else, could imagine the true nature of Burke’s relationship with a section of Perth business. Nevertheless there were warning bells, but their critique fell on deaf ears. Prophetically, Poprzeczny warned that Burke’s corporate activities would one day face more thorough examination. Few within the Labor Party had any reason to be suspicious of Burke’s attempts to engage business through legitimate agencies such as WADC. By secrecy and deceit Burke managed to con his party into believing that he was firmly of the Labor tradition. Young aspiring Labor politician Geoff Gallop defended Burke when he reviewed The Burke Ambush: ‘Burke has been keen to ensure that his own government’s commercial and other operations are soundly based and efficiently operated.’62 Neither Gallop nor any others in the party had any understanding that Burke had transformed corporatism into crony capitalism. This was Burke at his most flexible—power counted, party policy did not.

Throughout Burke’s career the unique combination of his political and personal skills operated as a double-edged sword; they help explain both his successive triumphs and tragedies. Burke was a far more complex character than the one displayed to the public. Underneath the bubble of self-confidence and charismatic charm, Burke was plagued by bouts of insecurity. A compulsive eater, he faced a constant battle to keep his 69

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weight under control during his premiership. He needed considerable self-discipline to turn down the endless offerings of cakes and pies at official functions, and to follow the fashionable Pritikin diet which involved his wife Sue preparing his meals at home and dispatching them to official functions where chefs would plate them and serve them to him in place of the in-house meals. Uncomfortable with close physical intimacy in public, he had a fierce dislike of constituents who wanted to hug or kiss him. Although he liked women, some thought him uncomfortable in their presence unless they were compliant. Among his anxieties was a morbid fear of flying and a brooding fear of failure which needed to be compensated by constant approval. One of his colleagues reported that Burke was always on the telephone asking, ‘What are people saying about me, what are people thinking about me?’63 One of his colleagues once acknowledged, ‘It really hurts him when people criticise him; he broods over it and gets upset.’64 As one of the people who observed him closely reflected, ‘There always seemed to be this need to be loved going on.’ In unguarded moments, he admitted to never being able to relax, to being prone to constant worry and to being only able to sleep fitfully at night.65 His obsessive need to be in charge was legendary. Described as a ‘control freak’,66 not only did he need to control those around him, he needed to control the flow of government information. He started each morning at 6 a.m. with a call to local radio stations, followed up by typing telexes to television stations. He would be finished by the time secretarial staff arrived for the day. As this routine suggests, Burke’s leadership was underpinned by a demonic quality—a ceaseless flow of restless energy. For relaxation he retreated into stamp collecting. He would bring parts of his ever-expanding collection into parliament and, during lengthy debates, play with the collection using tweezers to rearrange the position of the stamps in their albums. Some of his colleagues thought it was very unusual of him to paw over his collection amid the hurly-burly of the chamber, but stamps were more than a pastime for Burke; they were a passion. In 1986 he was ranked as one of 70

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the nation’s top collectors—an active and astute buyer according to dealers.67 Writing poetry was also important to him. He made some available to his biographer. The snippets reveal a brooding introspection; an absorption with himself. The imagery is dark and frequently bleak. In 1983, on the eve of election success, his favourite self-penned line was unmistakably melancholic: ‘The blueness of never ending days merging sadly into night blackly casts its gloom across cold stairs.’68 Burke did not hide all his vulnerabilities. He seemed to think letting the public see some of them made him more human, more easily identifiable as one of the people. Burke shared his mid-life crisis with the public. In the leadup to turning forty he granted the Sunday Times an interview in which he acknowledged that the landmark ‘made him think about dying . . . I just feel mortal.’69 More revelations of his insecurities followed. In 1987 he told a public forum that, ‘I’ve sometimes had trouble getting my head from under the blankets because things get that much. Sometimes I just stay home, put my head under the blanket and don’t move for the day.’ Unaware of the presence of a journalist, the comment was published the following day.70 It is an unusual admission for a leader. Not exposed to the public was the existence of childhood demons that had cemented into hatreds. He continued to be haunted by the Split and the demise of his father at the hands of the Left. He continued to describe Chamberlain as ‘evil’. As one journalist recalled, ‘He revered his father. It was as if the Split had happened the day before. It was just fresh in his mind. All the characters were fresh.’ Consequently Burke remained very bitter: ‘It was just war with the Left. He always had to fight that fight.’ He had one other challenge squared off in his mind: ‘Burke used to talk a lot in the 1980s [while he was premier] about how the Anglicans had run the town and now it was their [the Catholics’] turn.’ As these insecurities showed, Burke’s model of power was the outcome of a complex set of forces. From his family background came preconceived prejudices about his own party and a determination to right family wrongs. The pursuit of power came to be rationalised as an 71

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end in itself and Burke was easily drawn to approaches which seemed to him best able to realise his ambitions. These were disparate strands to hold together and the fact that Burke did so successfully while premier shows a certain talent because his model aimed to control the party, the bureaucracy, the media and the parliament. But what did he want to do with this power? How did he want to leave his mark? Huey Long was a charmer; he knew how to rouse the cheers of the crowd. He continued to champion the ‘little guys’ against Big Money while also seeking Big Money’s donations. Burke, too, believed he could be a champion of ordinary people while cementing ties with Big Money. It would prove to be his undoing.

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BURKE’S REPUTATION AS A POLITICAL genius was, and remained until very recent times, widely held. Especially during his premiership, he was lauded as a standout political operator. The savvy Paul Keating was in awe of his political talents. In his characteristically colourful language, Keating described Burke in the late 1980s as dripping in the IrishCatholic tradition: ‘Good talker, slick thinker, understands the mob psychology, understands the psychology of the ordinary person intuitively; doesn’t need opinion polls to be told where he is . . . gets up in the morning knowing it.’1 Tony Abbott, later a prominent federal Liberal Minister, was similarly enthralled. Writing for the Bulletin in 1986 he described Burke as an ‘old time Labor populist—cautious, conservative and anxious to secure the votes of the little people who comprise the bulk of the electorate’.2 No single issue cemented the belief in Burke’s political acumen more than the decision taken just months after being elected premier to cut the salaries of public servants and politician, including his own. Facing continuing fallout from the early 1980s recession and with a budget crisis looming, Burke undertook the unpalatable task of raising taxes and charges. Utilising his inside knowledge of how ‘big’ stories could be 73

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unveiled in the media, he planned a four-day strategy to explain the austerity measures and significant tax increases. As part of his ‘state of the state’ address to the media (only the ABC declined to take it live), Burke announced a program of austerity measures and tax hikes. But to nullify these unpalatable measures, he carefully planned the leak of a ‘circuit breaker’—the cut to the salaries of politicians and several hundred senior public servants of up to 10 per cent. In so doing Burke seemingly had the electorate’s measure. Press coverage of his package was positive and the politics played out well as Kim Beazley, then Special Minister of State in the Hawke government, explained: ‘The electorate completely forgot about the huge impost on charges and said, “Good on Burkie, at least he’s cutting back on the tall poppies”. I think that was the move of a genius.’3 Others were not so sure because of the amazed disbelief and cries of ‘sheer bloody lunacy’ which came from the top echelons of the Civil Service Association. However, the full implications of the opposition from this quarter would take time to materialise. Burke’s ability to engineer political outcomes often stunned colleagues, especially in the early years. On one occasion, just after Alan Bond had won the America’s Cup in 1983, Caucus was in session when the telephone rang. It soon became clear to the assembled members that Bond was ringing from America. Burke quickly placed his hand over the receiver and chuckled to his colleagues, ‘We’re just going to have to put up with this for a while now that Bondy’s won the Cup.’ Then Burke could be heard saying, ‘Yes Alan, yes I’ll see what I can do.’ The instant he was off the phone, Burke rang Prime Minister Bob Hawke and explained that Bond wanted to collect the Cup at the White House. ‘Can you fix it for us?’ he asked the prime minister. Within hours Team Bond was flown in by helicopter and President Reagan handed over the Cup. Burke was a political fixer. He was in the forefront of modelling the contemporary strand of politics that deals with contentious issues with an approach approximating ‘whatever it takes’ and ‘the ends justify the means’. He left much of the ordinary business of government to his talented ministry. They got on with the task of implementing the reform 74

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agenda honed over the years in Opposition including the abolition of the death penalty, the introduction of equal opportunity legislation, enhancing opportunities for small business and technology, and increasing social spending. But Burke had no time for issues that risked any aspect of his hold on power. This would be unsurprising if it were not for the fact that three of the issues he regarded as most threatening were longstanding Labor policy: the call for a national approach to Aboriginal land rights, conserving the state’s unique old-growth forests, and putting an ending to the state’s rigged electoral system. In general, he had no affinity for progressive politics, so in his opposition to these issues Burke’s real political make-up was revealed. He saw in these issues the recipe for defeat because the ‘ordinary’ man, upon whose support he had built his political image, did not see any relevance in them. Also these issues were championed by the Left and Burke was temperamentally illdisposed towards giving any oxygen to the people he considered as much an enemy as the Liberal Party. Added to these reasons for Burke’s opposition was his system of patronage. He was not inclined to support issues if any of his loyal supporters were threatened by them. Burke, therefore, was the ultimate modern political pragmatist: he pursued what was popular and ruthlessly undermined that which was not. His mastering of the role of the realist was one of the reasons federal Labor valued him so highly. But did this mean that Burke himself was devoid of any beliefs in his quest to stay in power?

No issue better defined Burke’s instinct for pragmatic fixes than Aboriginal land rights. This was an issue he would have preferred to avoid but could not. Commitment to Aboriginal land rights within the Labor Party—and within the broader community—had risen steadily following Aboriginal demands for self-determination in the late 1960s. One of the turning points in this journey was the protracted dispute over Noonkanbah Station in the Kimberley. Between 1979 and 1980 the traditional owners of the pastoral station conducted non-violent protests over moves 75

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by American mining giant Amax, which had leased the property to explore areas that included sacred sites. The Court government backed Amax and, with the dispute fanning into a broader land rights struggle, Sir Charles took an uncompromising approach and engineered a showdown on the property. Fending off critical national media coverage, Court dispatched a convoy of mining equipment, protected by a police escort, from Perth to the Kimberley where the traditional owners’ nonviolent protest was crushed by determined police action. The sheer insensitivity of the Court government’s handling of the Noonkanbah dispute drove the Western Australian and federal Labor parties to including land rights in their respective platforms. In 1982 Burke addressed an Aboriginal land rights rally of 400 Ngaanatjarra Aborigines who had travelled 1800 kilometres to Perth to ask for title to their traditional Western Desert land. Burke reassured them of his intention to introduce land rights legislation, but he had no fire in his belly for the fight. He was nervous all the way to the rally, fearful of providing a commitment he knew to be laden with risks. The Hawke government, which had come to power just weeks after Burke, had an unequivocal commitment to introducing national Aboriginal land rights legislation intended to override any state that did not abide by its framework of five principles. Federal Minister for Aboriginal Affairs Clyde Holding laid out these principles in an historically significant speech to parliament in December 1983, promising a new relationship with Aboriginal people. In this speech, repeated later at the United Nations, Holding declared the framework of five principles to be: freehold title to land, protection of sacred sites, Aboriginal control over mining through a veto on developments, access to royalties and compensation for those groups dispossessed of land. The package represented the first comprehensive attempt to settle the legal fiction of terra nullius which had reigned since settlement. However, in resource-rich states like Western Australia, the issue of an Aboriginal veto was among the most politically vexed. To Aboriginal people and their supporters, the willingness of mining com76

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panies to railroad development over Aboriginal wishes to protect their sacred sites meant that any land rights without the veto was akin to defeat. To mining companies, and the governments who depended on their investment and political support, the veto was tantamount to a battle cry to overturn federal Labor’s commitment to its principles. The struggle over land rights dominated state and federal politics for the next two years. On the broader political level, it became not just a contest between supporters and opponents of the proposal but a moral struggle over the future of the nation. As the West Australian editorialised, ‘It goes to the heart of all that Western society has held precious, challenging traditional conceptions of sovereignty and calling into question the way in which we distribute wealth and power.’4 Burke would test Hawke’s resolve to meet this challenge like no-one else. Burke had little interest in the moral and historical underpinnings of the land rights debate. He was, for example, disparaging of the attempts by church leaders to lobby him over the issue, and he once complained bitterly to a colleague about the comfort of the clergy’s life tenure in comparison with the requirement of a political leader to face the electors every three years. While the Church could be held at bay, not so the powerful mining lobby which was cashed up and spoiling for a fight. The lobby had backed the Burke government, support that would evaporate if it proceeded to legislate for land rights and especially if it allowed a veto.5 Additionally, Burke was intuitively aware of Western Australian popular attitudes of which there were two absolutes: Aboriginal people were undeserving of a separate claim to rights and federal governments should stay out of state affairs. Burke’s sensitivity to public opinion heightened during 1984 as he prepared to face a series of by-elections. He was also keen to remove the issue from the agenda well before the 1986 state election. Given the political realities as he saw them, Burke was not going to risk any political capital on land rights. State Labor parliamentarian Tom Stephens experienced Burke’s discomfort with Aboriginal issues several times during the 1980s. A particularly revealing insight occurred in 77

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February 1985 when he asked the premier to come up to his electorate in the remote north of Western Australia. They flew to Christmas Creek homestead where, alighting from the small plane, they were met by a large group of elders. At an arranged meeting with Burke later on, the elders asked him in Aboriginal English and in almost humble tones whether their community could one day get running water because their children were becoming sick from drinking unhygienic water. Burke was strangely silent in the face of their request. He said nothing at all. Embarrassed, Stephens turned to Burke to prompt him to make a response. A still stunned Burke asked Stephens what he should say, to which Stephens suggested ‘at the very least say that you will look into it and Burke said exactly that. That was the end. I was dumbfounded by his disconnection.’ Two hours later during another ‘meet and greet’ stop, this time at the primarily white town of Kununurra, Burke could not have been more different. The premier and Tom Stephens were met by a regional government official who ushered Burke down to the local park, where he implored him to fund an irrigation system to keep the trees alive. Burke was quick to inquire about the cost and gave a promise within minutes.6 Unlike Huey Long, who genuinely tried to include some support for African-Americans in his advocacy for poor people, Burke could not similarly champion the rights of Aboriginal people. To minimise the risks of national land rights legislation, Burke pursued a two-part strategy: to convince the federal government to abandon its commitment to the five principles and to accept his own watered-down version, and to gain the support of the mining industry for his version. This was an audacious plan given that it involved breaking with his own state’s ALP policy and that of the federal government, and persuading the mining industry to back him. He knew that he had more than an even chance of ending up with no land rights strategy at all under this plan because the Liberals, who controlled the upper house, had declared themselves against any form of land rights. The first plank in Burke’s plan to marginalise the Commonwealth on 78

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the issue was to set up a Western Australian inquiry into land rights, which he did in May 1983 without consulting Caucus and against the advice of Clive Holding.7 An inquiry was a significant gamble. It threatened to send the debate out of control by providing a platform for extremist views and raising Aboriginal expectations. But Burke saw it as a pre-emptive move to keep the Commonwealth out of the debate. However, his choice to head the inquiry was unusual. Lawyer Paul Seaman had a longstanding reputation for acting on behalf of Aboriginal people in court. Surprisingly Burke’s legendary skills to read the character of people deserted him on this occasion because Seaman was always going to run an independent inquiry and produce a politically untarnished report. But even Burke could not have predicted how Seaman himself would be changed by his extensive contact with Aboriginal people during the inquiry and his consequent reflections on the land rights question. While Seaman began his travels around the state, Burke’s concerns about the political implications of land rights became alarmingly confirmed—throughout the first half of 1984 the mining lobby in Western Australia signalled its intention to play hard-ball on the issue by mounting a lavishly funded multi-media campaign to encourage public opposition to the proposal. Widely regarded as racist propaganda, the near-saturation media campaign was aimed at raising community fears about Aboriginal control over land by linking it to the threatened loss of economic prosperity. In one infamous commercial, a pair of black hands was depicted as building a brick wall across the map of Western Australia, while another featured a ‘Keep Out’ sign with the accompanying warning ‘This land is part of Western Australia under Aboriginal claim’.8 Burke, Hawke and Holding were all shocked by the blatant appeals to prejudice contained in the mining lobby’s media campaign. But its effect was unmistakable. Burke’s determination to convince the federal government to abolish its commitment to national land rights legislation was emboldened while Hawke became more receptive to his appeals. Throughout 1984 Burke had several extended meetings with Hawke on 79

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the issue. Political considerations were paramount in their conversations. Burke came armed with polling showing the disastrously low levels of public support for land rights legislation and in one meeting with the federal cabinet challenged Hawke with the comment that if he wanted to lose government he should go ahead and try to introduce national legislation. Burke could point to the rising public opposition being fanned by the Western Australian mining industry’s campaign, a campaign which might extend to the national arena if the federal government did not back off from its five principles. The federal Liberal Party, which initially supported the Hawke government’s five point plan, reneged on its commitment to support national legislation. A broader ‘race debate’ had also been sparked by inflammatory comments made by prominent academic Professor Geoffrey Blainey, who questioned the high levels of Asian immigration to Australia. It was clearly a time for determined leadership or tactical retreat. Burke seized his opportunity. The alternative way, Burke argued with Hawke, was to let the state governments deal with their own land rights legislation. Nevertheless the ongoing stress of handling the issue was taking its toll on Burke. He described his anxiety over the issue to a Labor colleague who recalls: ‘He said that it got to the point that when he was trying to think through these issues they made him physically ill and the threat that the land rights issue represented to Labor’s prospects caused him on one occasion to rush from his desk into his office bathroom where he vomited.’ Both governments were waiting on the release of the Seaman Report, which was brought down in late September 1984. It created headlines with its bold, and unexpected, affirmation of the need for extensive land rights in the state including the acceptance of a veto over mining. Burke wasted barely a moment in declaring his opposition to the report but foreshadowed his commitment to introducing a watered-down version of federal Labor’s proposal for Aborigines’ security over title. However, he could not stop sceptics in the media from claiming that an under80

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standing had been reached with the resources industry. A journalist from the Daily News commented: Subjecting himself to stiff cross-examination, the Premier, Mr Burke, denied suggestions that the Government had made up its mind about Aboriginal land rights before Mr Seaman made his recommendations. Mr Burke’s unconvincing denial follows 18 months of heated controversy and frantic lobbying from those most likely to suffer from land rights, the mining and farming industries.9

A month after the Seaman report was released, the state government commissioned market research on community attitudes to current political issues in suburban Perth. There were two key findings: the issue of land rights was well down the list of priorities for voters but, when asked about it, attitudes were negative. Only 10 per cent favoured a veto over mining.10 The implications were clear: engage in a public education campaign to address community attitudes or find the least threatening form of legislation. After initially giving a commitment to fund a community awareness campaign on land rights in response to a request from Western Australian Aboriginal activist Rob Riley, head of the National Aboriginal Conference (NAC), the main body representing Aboriginal people, Burke abandoned the idea, as did the federal government. Public opinion was now largely in the hands of the miners and their lavishly funded propaganda machine. The release of the Seaman Report prompted Burke to engage in another round of negotiations with the federal government, which had spent the preceding months in exhaustive negotiations with Aboriginal groups on the ways in which it would translate its five principles of land rights into legislation. The federal government also fended off repeated and persistent lobbying from the mining industry to water down its proposed legislation. For now it was holding fast to its position, at least in public, but Clyde Holding refused to rule out the introduction of tougher Commonwealth legislation to overrule state laws.11 81

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Behind the scenes, in the first week of October, Burke and Hawke engaged in several days of talks. These produced the first tentative signs that the federal government’s position was weakening. In a statement produced after the meetings, Hawke sounded equivocal. He tried to straddle both positions—upholding the Commonwealth’s constitutional responsibilities to Aborigines while acknowledging the ‘special needs’ of Western Australia. Burke was ebullient, claiming the prime minister promised there would be no overriding Commonwealth legislation. However, it took until the beginning of January 1985 for final confirmation of the Commonwealth’s backdown on its historic promise to the Aboriginal people to give legislative expression to their aspiration to control their lands and to acknowledge the injustice of those who had been dispossessed. On 23 January, Burke strode into a press conference in Canberra from a meeting with the prime minister with his concessions from Hawke in writing. Burke had convinced the prime minister of the sense of the political trade-off. The press argued that his concessions ‘will enrage Aboriginal communities and the left wing of the ALP, [but] will help guarantee his government’s future and consolidate his standing with the mining industry’.12 As part of the trade-off the Western Australian government guaranteed to the federal government its commitment to introduce legislation on land rights. The mining lobby was ecstatic. Keith Orchidson, executive director of the Australian Petroleum Exploration Association, could not contain his glee when he spoke to the press: ‘You’ve got to hand it to Brian Burke. He is a very interesting character. He goes out and tells you he will do something and does it . . . This is a very significant result for the mining industry in this country. Mr Burke has broken considerable new ground. To break from party platform is a major victory.’13 Burke now turned his attention to the commitment he had given to develop his own legislation. In executing this task he trod a fine line between keeping Aboriginal expectations contained while allowing maximum scope to the resources industry to shape the legislation. By this time Burke had vociferous critics within the Aboriginal movement 82

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and none more so than Rob Riley. Riley loathed Burke’s form of pragmatic politics and at a National Press Club address in October 1984 had taken both him and Hawke to task for selling out Aboriginal interests. Burke was well aware that the limited measures he had in mind risked being derailed if Riley and other Western Australian NAC representatives such as Peter Yu were offered any degree of involvement. Riley and Yu had helped consolidate the federal government’s commitment to the five principles on land rights. It soon became clear just how Burke planned to marginalise these critics. In preparation for the state legislation, Burke issued an invitation to all Aboriginal groups to be consulted about the legislation and then promptly accused Riley of leaking a copy of the draft bill to the Age newspaper, a claim Riley steadfastly denied. Nonetheless, Burke banned the NAC from any further involvement in the process, an act which Riley claimed was designed to isolate the NAC and create division among Aboriginal groups.14 Riley wrote to Burke and angrily accused him of isolating his critics so that he could abandon the federal government’s five principles: ‘Here we have a Government supposedly dedicated to introducing Aboriginal Land Rights that seeks to gag Aborigines who happen to have a different view to yours . . . The proposed WA legislation ignores four of the five major principles espoused in federal ALP policy.’15 While these divisions were fermenting, the mining and pastoral lobbies were deeply involved in the drafting stage.16 When the legislation was introduced into parliament, it contained one significant incentive to attract Aboriginal support. The area identified for return to Aboriginal people was larger than expected. However, in all other aspects, the bill was considered as among the weakest of the various state acts. It did not contain the right of veto over mining, it required disclosure of the location of sites for protection—thereby transgressing the sacred nature of sites—and it offered no compensation for dispossession. It was criticised by many Aboriginal groups and their supporters for falling short of reasonable expectations.17 Burke faced an impossible task in getting the legislation through the 83

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conservative dominated upper house. But an insight into his curious blend of motives can be gleaned from an angry conversation he had with Tom Stephens about its difficult passage. Stephens, a former seminarian, criticised the bill at a conference of young Christians and this was reported in the press. He received an angry late-night call from Burke when the first edition of the paper came out. ‘How dare you do this to me and attack my Christian ethics,’ Burke bellowed down the phone. Tom Stephens recalls the continuing tirade: ‘I don’t even know the Aboriginal people of WA like you do; I didn’t get elected to parliament to do anything for Aboriginal people. But if you leave me alone long enough I will do more for Aboriginal people than you’ll ever do. I can’t get anything better through the parliament than this. If you just leave me alone I’ll get this bloody bill through. With all your idealism you’ll never be able to deliver half of what I can.’18 This was vintage Burke—taunting his critics in his own party and self-aggrandising in the process. But how serious was he in getting the bill through the upper house? In the end the bill was lost by a few votes. This was predictable, but undoubtedly Burke’s efforts narrowed the losing margin. Either way, the fate of the bill did not matter much to Burke. If it passed it had the imprimatur of the resources industry. If it failed there would be little public disquiet. By way of compensation, Burke did move to grant pastoral leases to Aboriginal people, but his true feelings about his brush with the politics of Aboriginal rights were revealed a few months after the bill’s defeat. ‘If I am instructed by the Party to introduce land rights legislation,’ he bluntly told the press, ‘I will step aside. That’s it.’19 Burke knew that too much political capital would have to be expended in any further attempt and his view of politics was based not on idealism but on the art of the possible. He had played an historically decisive role in diverting the nation away from its first attempt to comprehensively deal with the legacy of colonisation. As to criticisms inside the party, he had an equally bare-knuckle reply: ‘Couldn’t care less,’ he told a journalist from The Australian.20 ***

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If Burke’s calculated pragmatism and dislike of progressive causes dissuaded him from the fight over land rights, he was equally unenthusiastic about another important part of Labor policy, electoral reform. This involved addressing the rorted electoral law that favoured rural, as opposed to metropolitan, voters. Labor faced a rigged electoral system when trying to gain seats in both houses of parliament, but especially in the state’s powerful upper house; gaining a majority in the Legislative Council was a near-impossible task. The system was the most undemocratic in Australia and one of the worst in the Western world for failing to uphold the democratic ideal that all votes should have equal weight.21 For Labor, the policy of electoral reform combined both self-interest and principle. However, it never excited Burke. His reasoning was similar to his opposition to land rights: there were no votes in electoral reform so there was no point in expending political capital in championing the cause. Cynics might have argued that Burke had a vested interest in maintaining an undemocratic upper house because it could be relied upon to put a brake on progressive policies and, as with its opposition to land rights, it could be a convenient scapegoat for the premier’s critics in the ALP. But there were differences in his handling of the two issues: with land rights public opinion was the threat to his power, with electoral reform the threat came from within the party. Burke had to handle this issue with care behind the scenes. Enraging the progressive element of the Labor Party was the extent to which the state’s electoral laws violated basic democratic principles by embodying both malapportionment, that is great discrepancies in the number of voters in each electorate, and gerrymander, by which boundaries are drawn in ways that influenced the outcome of elections. Waves of amendments to Western Australia’s electoral laws during the twentieth century entrenched these two features. The explanation given by conservatives for these anomalies was that ‘special’ circumstances existed in Western Australia: the vast distances of its remote areas from Perth and the differences in interests between rural and urban voters. From the 1960s the weighting of rural electorates meant that the metropolitan area with 85

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66 per cent of the population returned only 40 per cent of the members of the Legislative Assembly and 37.5 per cent of Legislative Council seats.22 Four electorates in the remote north-west of the state had boundaries drawn without regard to population. Enrolments in these electorates ranged from between approximately 4000 voters to around 18 000. Enrolments in Legislative Council seats were similarly askew, ranging from 100 000 voters per seat to 9000. The effect of the system was to produce an electoral bias that meant no matter how many votes the Labor party received, this did not correlate to the number of seats it won.23 Carrying the torch for electoral reform in the party throughout the 1970s and early 1980s were Arthur Tonkin and Mal Bryce. At one stage Tonkin, who was active in trying to raise public awareness of the issue, organised a parade through the streets of Perth carrying a coffin inscribed ‘the death of democracy’ to highlight the inequity of the electoral laws. His interest in the issue went back to his childhood and remembered debates over the English Civil War where he sided with Cromwell against the king because he sensed the challenge to the power of the monarch was democratic in spirit. As a high school teacher before going into parliament he had taught his students about the structure of Western Australian politics and he felt keenly the undemocratic nature of the electoral laws. But it was stony ground in which to plant grassroots action. As Mal Bryce recalls, ‘There was nothing less likely to get a hall full of people than electoral reform.’ Nonetheless the two persisted and were instrumental in having electoral reform included in the party’s platform for the 1983 election. Once in power Tonkin became Minister for Electoral Reform but he quickly realised that Burke would be the first obstacle in his way. Aware that Burke had never led the debate to reform the electoral laws, Tonkin soon discovered how deftly the premier played the politics of the issue. Not long after the election, a meeting was called with all the top public servants at which Burke proclaimed that electoral reform would be the government’s top priority. Tonkin was taken aback: ‘I thought what the hell is going on. That’s not Burkie.’ After the meeting Burke told 86

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Tonkin, ‘I did that for you Arthur’. Tonkin interpreted this as Burke’s attempt to curry favour with him rather than as a declaration of his commitment to the policy.24 It was the first of many signals that Burke was sitting on the fence but Tonkin nonetheless proceeded with the development of draft legislation to outlaw gerrymandering and malapportionment. Burke did not lead any of the parliamentary debates and the legislation failed to pass the upper house. In public Burke continued to proclaim that the Labor Party ‘has not and will never abandon our long standing objective of giving every West Australian an equal voice in deciding the composition of the Parliament and the government’.25 But within the party his actions told another story. After the 1986 election Mal Bryce took over the electoral reform portfolio. Keen to take up the challenge, especially because the election had improved Labor’s position in the upper house, he prepared a draft bill embodying the principle of one vote one value to take to a Cabinet meeting in Geraldton at which Arthur Tonkin was also in attendance as Minister for Police and Emergency Services. At the meeting, however, the proposed bill met with stiff opposition from Julian Grill, who was the member for one of the handful of Labor-held seats that would be affected by the proposed changes. Burke turned to Grill and said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll ensure it is defeated in the upper house.’ When Grill shot back, ‘Are you sure?’ Burke answered, ‘Yes, I am.’ With this assurance, Grill turned directly to Tonkin and looked at him with what he took to be ‘a triumphant leer’. Both Tonkin and Bryce were outraged over the turn of events. Bryce left the meeting ‘with a knotted gut’ and took a lonely walk around Geraldton. Burke’s cynical ploy ‘just about destroyed my commitment to the political process’, he says. Tonkin agonised over the defeat for a day and then resigned from Cabinet. In his letter of resignation he wrote, ‘Pragmatism in politics is necessary. But there is a line beyond which we should not go.’26 From here, any attempt at electoral reform would entail a compromise of party principles. Bryce continued the process and, in negotiations with 87

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the National Party, found a formula to wind back the malapportionment and introduce proportional representation in the Legislative Council, thus paving the way for the election of minor parties to that chamber. Speaking after the passage of the legislation, Burke promised electoral reform would be a priority after the next state election, but by then he would be gone. For now, some worthwhile, though limited, measures had been passed which kept intact the power of existing rural Labor members while giving some hope to those wishing for bolder reform. A thorough reform of the state’s electoral laws would have to await the election of the Gallop Labor government in 2001.

While electoral reform was a lesser issue to the public, Burke faced a much tougher challenge from the emerging environmental movement and its focus on conserving the unique stands of jarrah and karri forests in the south-west of the state. In this struggle, Burke combined a boldness of vision with his aptitude for patronage politics and political acumen. Behind his moves was a disdain for environmentalists and an instinctive concern to protect the forest industry and its jobs. Foreshadowing these conflicts was the decision in 1976 by the ruling Liberal Party to establish a wood-chipping industry in the state based around logging old-growth forests. Under the Woodchipping Agreement Act, Western Australia was committed to exporting 500 000 tonnes of chip logs every year for fifteen years, a decision taken with scant attention to the environmental impacts.27 Community concern coalesced into a long-term campaign to save these forests with the formation of two community groups, the Campaign to Save Native Forests (CSNF) and the South-West Forests Defence Foundation (SFDF). The Labor Party in opposition was the focus of activists’ hopes to rein in the industry and to save the Shannon Basin, an area of 60 000 hectares of mostly unlogged jarrah and karri forest which drained into one of the most isolated and pristine inlets on the south-west coast, from logging. The Labor Party had umbilical ties to this campaign through its Conserva88

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tion and Environment Committee, the members of which were nearly all foundation members of CSNF and SFDF. A fierce struggle occurred between Burke and the Environment Committee over a move to have inserted into the party platform for the 1983 election a commitment to save the Shannon from logging. Behind the scenes, the state’s major timber company, Bunnings, which owned the rights to the resources in the area, vigorously lobbied the Labor Party not to make the area a national park. Worried, too, about the potential loss of the parliamentary seat covering the area, Burke implored the party’s Conservation and Environment Committee to remove the commitment to saving the Shannon. According to prominent conservationist Beth Schultz, Burke offered a deal: remove the words from the platform and he would issue a letter to the committee saying the area would be made a national park. But the committee would not be persuaded. Having won the 1983 election with a commitment to protect the Shannon, Burke set about undermining the party’s platform. He made himself Minister for Forests and sought a legal opinion from prominent QC Ian Temby to clarify whether or not the government had the power to revoke forestry licences in the Shannon Basin and declare the area a national park. The advice received was positive news for Burke: the government would have to either change the legislation under which the Forests Department worked or allow the leases to expire. Conservationists obtained their own legal advice from David Malcolm, who argued the government did have the power under existing legislation to revoke licences and create a national park. However, armed with his legal opinion, Burke let new roads be built and coupes logged in the Shannon. It would be business as usual, despite the party’s policy. Burke’s next move in the forestry debate was not to countermand party policy, but to trump it. Without any prior consultation in party forums, he moved behind the scenes to create a mega land resources department, the Department of Conservation and Land Management (with the curiously mismatched acronym CALM). Burke plucked a midlevel forestry dieback scientist, Syd Shea, from the Forests Department 89

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and brought him into the Department of Premier and Cabinet to work on the amalgamation. By combining all existing land use and conservation agencies in one department, Burke ensured that forestry interests would triumph over conservation interests especially because his hand-picked head of the agency, Shea, shared with him a passionate dislike of ‘greenies’. The result of this arrangement was to place conservationists at political loggerheads with the Burke government and its new bureaucratic empire. The ensuing trench warfare left a legacy of polarised politics which ended only when the Gallop government banned logging in old-growth forests. A talented scientist, Shea was untried in management but he was a friend of Burke’s and a prominent member of the Labor Party. Shea’s appointment as head of CALM led to him being regarded ‘in some quarters as one of Brian Burke’s ‘‘parachutists’’ into a top public service job’.28 In fact Shea’s promotion is said to have ‘angered highly placed public servants’ who were convinced there were better applicants for the position.29 One of his former colleagues described the transition: ‘He moved overnight from being a Research Officer in the little forestry and timber town of Dwellingup to the corridors of power in government.’30 In many ways Shea proved equal to the faith Burke had in his latent talents. He quickly became a formidable administrator. But Burke’s view was that he was his man. Years later, in conversations taped by the Corruption and Crime Commission, Burke told a colleague, ‘As Premier I went through considerable pain and confronted formidable opposition to establish CALM and then to ensure Sid Shay [sic] was its executive director. I did so with the intention of establishing a centre of excellence that would be fearless in pursuing correct proper courses even in direct situations.’31 Burke’s support for Shea is clear enough from this conversation, and so is his endorsement of the model represented by CALM. More ambiguous is the purpose which he intended the organisation to serve. What was meant by ‘proper courses’ and ‘direct situations’? Did Burke mean that CALM was to be a centre of excellence to protect the forest industry against the inroads being made by the emerging green 90

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movement? Given his attitudes on the environment, this seems the most likely interpretation. The members of the party’s Conservation and Environment Committee were kept in the dark about the creation of CALM. Little was known about the early workings of a task force set up to map out the changes and, despite widespread opposition to the amalgamation during later consulation, the government proceeded with its plans. Yet, when the amalgamation was announced, the government was keen to obtain the imprimatur of the conservation movement. Burke’s sights were set on securing the endorsement of the Conservation Council of Western Australia, the peak non-government conservation body. He gained the council’s support by allegedly arranging for loyalists to attend the meeting—effectively to stack it—and, as Beth Schultz recalls, an ‘horrendous’ meeting ensued which split the council. At the end of the meeting, one of the Burke loyalists was reportedly heard ringing the Premier and telling him ‘we’ve got it through for you’. Burke also pressed hard to get the legislation through the upper house, deploying the full range of his persuasive skills to do so. It was no surprise to insiders when Shea became head of the organisation. A polarising figure, he was blessed with intellectual flair, drive and media skills. Once appointed head of CALM he bestrode the office ‘like a Colossus’32 and, like Burke, he was adept at the art of political intrigue.33 In common with Burke also, he had no time for conservation. As one of CALM’s former senior executives, Roger Underwood, has written: There was no question that Dr Shea’s sympathies were with the timber workers rather than the environmentalists. He was especially contemptuous of the ‘chardonnay socialists, living in Subiaco, driving a Volvo, with a German shepherd dog’ who uncritically supported the cause of the environmentalists and who made no attempt to properly understand the real situation down in the bush . . . Dr Shea despised them.34 91

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CALM polarised opinions. Writing of the organisation in which he used to work, Roger Underwood highlights the dedicated conservation programs and expansion of national parks that it sponsored.35 Yet conservationists’ fears about CALM’s focus on the production of timber were soon realised. Its first draft management plan proposed to convert conservation and recreation areas into ‘forest parks’ which were open to ‘sustainable timber production’. The agency also trebled the measurement of the sustainable yield of the jarrah forest by changing the method by which yields were calculated.36 Persistent criticism throughout the latter 1980s that CALM had been turned into a ‘giant money making enterprise’37 by logging forests beyond sustainable yields continued to dog the organisation. Burke and Shea had built an empire but only by keeping the enemy at the gates. As Underwood writes, ‘Tolerance for independent thinking on forestry issues in CALM [became] close to zero.’38 By marginalising Labor policy on controversial issues, Burke created a party in his own image: pragmatic, populist and without ideological baggage. Future Labor premier Dr Carmen Lawrence gained an insight into Burke’s leadership style during the 1986 preselection round the year she entered parliament. Burke was backing one ‘party hack’ over the more credentialled Dr Geoff Gallop, then a university politics lecturer. Burke only withdrew support for his candidate after substantial pressure was exerted by his Cabinet colleagues and by Western Australian federal parliamentarians. Burke’s reasons for trying to quash Gallop’s preselection had stuck in Lawrence’s mind. He said that ‘having too much talent on the backbench was dangerous and would destabilise the parliamentary party’.39

In keeping with the Machiavellian tradition, Burke believed that the main concern for the political leader was the acquisition and maintenance of power. Whatever actions were necessary to achieve these ends were legitimate. A successful leader had to show moral flexibility. The federal Labor Party was in awe of his refinement of this skill. 92

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Why was he so successful in this role? Part of the reason must lie in his background. The stories he grew up with about the evils of the Left did underpin his vengeful approach to politics. At the time of his retirement, a few observers recognised this underlying motive. Duncan Graham, a features writer with the Age newspaper, commented: ‘Mr Burke has succeeded in his sworn task brilliantly. The Left in WA is shattered. It lacks power, purpose and leadership. Now Mr Burke is exhausted, a man without a challenge.’40 However, routing the Left to avenge his father does not fully explain Burke’s approach to government. Crucial, too, was his disengagement from politics as a set of ideals. His early exit from education, the weakening of his ties to Catholic teaching and his early attraction to populism meant that he lacked a solid, internal political framework. Unlike some other Labor politicians of his generation, he did not blend pragmatism with a ‘bigger picture’ of politics. At much the same time as he was fending off ‘greenies’, his close federal colleague Graham Richardson was engaging with them, albeit for political advantage. Not long after Burke helped jettison national Aboriginal land rights, Paul Keating began his journey to rethink Aboriginal issues. Of course, Burke had commitments of sorts, but like many from his era and background he was uncomfortable in the face of new and unsettling ideas. His inability to engage at any level with the Aboriginal and environmental movements are the clearest indication of this mindset. His comfort zone was the opinions of ‘ordinary’ Australians and their preference for the status quo. His commitment was to jobs, business growth, social conservatism and material progress, all of which were occasionally overlain with memories from his Catholic boyhood and the ideals of distributism. There was, and is, nothing remarkable about these ideas among both Australia’s major political parties. Distinguishing Burke was the ruthless way in which he undermined policies he did not support, even if they were longstanding policies of the party of which he was a member. He was prepared to go to almost any lengths to build the party in his own image. 93

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Above all, Burke’s marginalisation of the Left made him a leader in almost complete control of the party he led. His capacity for ruthlessness thrived because he had such a range of political armoury with which he controlled the key power bases of a democracy: parliament, the media and the bureaucracy. His style of leadership, like his personality, was devastatingly effective. Not all in the party were happy with Burke’s repeated defiance of Labor policy but, as one journalist explained, this did not worry Burke: ‘Mr Burke acknowledges that at times the Government has upset its traditional constituency but says the resignation of long standing ALP members over what they consider to be policy breaches does not particularly upset him’.41 His charisma meant the public were still enamoured of him and, behind the scenes, he had been soldiering away on other plans to further entrench his government in power.

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IN MID 1985 PREMIER BRIAN BURKE went on radio and made an extraordinary admission: he acknowledged that rumours were circulating of his alleged corruption. On his regular 6PR program ‘Meet the Premier’—and picked up the following day by the West Australian1— Burke took the rumours head on. They were that Burswood casino developer Dallas Dempster had provided a block of land on which John Roberts, of Multiplex Constructions, was building a house for Burke and that Burke had arranged abortions for two young women in the northwest of the state two years previously. The house rumour in particular, said the premier, had ‘wide currency’. While acknowledging that the rumours hurt, Burke rejected the need for legal action even though he claimed to know the source. Such treatment, he said, was just part of the political process. In 1987 Burke went to the media to again scotch rumours about his activities. He acknowledged a clutch of whispers about his personal life and repeated the same one about the house that was supposedly being built for him by grateful businessmen. Again he reiterated that none of the rumours were true. In fact he confirmed the family still lived in the 95

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same house in Balga and he insisted he had ‘less money than when he went into politics’.2 Allegations that Burke personally benefited from his period in government became the centrepiece of the Royal Commission investigation into WA Inc. Burke was eventually convicted of stealing from the Labor Party (a charge that was later quashed) and of defrauding the state over his travel allowance. His career raises questions about the propriety of governments developing close relationships with business. Burke took these connections to new heights in Australian politics, described as ‘the most efficient combination of business and politics the country has ever seen’.3 In Burke’s mind his relationships with business were always underpinned by political considerations, but the Royal Commission into WA Inc later came to the conclusion that he did derive personal benefit as well. WA Inc would delve the murky world of money and politics as never before. Burke’s embrace of close relationships with business was always designed to serve multiple purposes. Publicly he could declare that it aided the ALP policy aims of promoting Western Australian business, producing profits to keep down state taxes and shaking up the state’s economy. His specially created Western Australian Development Corporation acted as the legitimate arm of the government’s policy of corporatism. However, Burke developed this relationships for political ends too. He established a system of special relationships with entrepreneurs as the means of staying in power. By controlling the deal-making himself, he could generate a flow of donations to the Labor Party to ensure the re-election of his government. This objective was largely kept secret. Kim Beazley believes it was Burke’s main motivation: by capturing these business figures as long-term Labor donors, Burke sought to ‘build a giant spider’s web that could never be broken’.4 At the centre was the Labor Party with him as leader. Burke never seemed troubled by the ethics of using large-scale donations as a means of cementing power. It was through this direct involvement of business that the ideals of corporatism morphed into crony capitalism, in which powerful businessmen and powerful 96

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politicians formed self-serving ties. No state premier backed business more than Burke and no set of business leaders ever backed a premier like Western Australia’s entrepreneurs backed Burke. Burke had long fancied that he, too, possessed a talent for entrepreneurship. Contemporaries have noted his apparent fondness for deal-making. Peter Ellingsen, a journalist with the Age who interviewed Burke in 1985, wrote: ‘Like a small boy playing ‘‘Monopoly’’, Australia’s youngest Premier loves tinkering with money and the people who control it.’5 Of course Ellingsen could not have known how prescient his comment was. The same could not be said of long-time Burke friend Julian Grill, who made the disarming admission that ‘Brian just could not resist the entrepreneurial role’. It fed his unfulfilled appetite for business, as Grill explained: ‘Burkie had run more than one small enterprise, including the printing and publishing of a well known racing guide.’ Having oversight and direct control of the business arm of government ‘titillated’ Burke, according to Grill.6 How much influence Burke’s fascination for Huey Long had in the way he dealt with the intersection between business and politics is a matter of interesting speculation. Long played his politics within the realities of the system as he saw it. He tolerated some corruption, believing it to be a necessary reward for his campaign team and also necessary to make the political process work effectively. But Long thought graft should be kept within strict limits because ‘if corruption got out of hand the machine, and hence the whole political structure, would be weakened’.7 As an aficionado of Huey Long’s career, Burke could not have ignored the way in which Long’s biographer wrote about corruption. Long depended on huge sums of money coming into the campaign to remain in power. Yet he came to realise that this money also carried the risk that some of it ‘would stick to the hands of those that gathered it’.8 Long warned his followers that if he were to die they must not use the power he had created. Only he could run the money-soaked machine or else those around him would go to jail. These were salutary lessons for any politician seeking to create a political machine based on raising vast sums of money. 97

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In the lead-up to the 1983 campaign Burke made his first contact with potential benefactors, some say through old family friend Jack Walsh and with the aid of radio personality Bob Maumill. After the election, Walsh spent much of his time secretly working for the entrepreneur Laurie Connell and for Burke, helping to facilitate the early WA Inc deals.9 In 1983 Walsh wrote to Burke under Connell’s letterhead confirming the surreptitious nature of his work: ‘I would point out that no copies of the memo have been retained in our office, except on a magnetic disk which is password protected. It is appreciated that all the documents related to this matter are extremely sensitive.’10 With Walsh working behind the scenes, Connell himself began to adopt the role of conduit between Burke and the loose group of entrepreneurs with whom he had direct access. Conjuring a motoring metaphor, Burke famously labelled this group ‘four-on-the-floor’ businessmen. How much Burke knew about Connell’s background is no longer clear but Laurie’s dubious reputation was well enough known in racing and business circles. Cuttingly described by one prominent journalist as ‘a two-bit shyster’ with an ‘engaging innocence’, Connell was driven by humble beginnings and a craving for wealth and recognition. Pugnacious, ebullient and with boundless self-belief, he dreamed of establishing a racing empire ‘that would plunder prize money at carnivals across the nation’.11 But Connell was known as much for his chicanery as for the fine racing bloodstock he owned. When he met Burke, Connell’s infamous two-year disqualification from racing had not been fully erased from many people’s memories. He was disqualified for a ruse that has become part of racing folklore—the ‘Kalgoorlie sting’. In September 1975 Connell was at the Kalgoorlie races where he placed a bet on a race at Melbourne’s Sandown track. Minutes later a delayed broadcast of the race was played at the Kalgoorlie track. The time between the end of the race and the broadcast was sufficient for the name of the eastern states winner to be relayed to Connell. He is said to have gained access to the result via a press phone at the track, and to have placed his bet knowing the result.12 98

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Connell had also been involved in another crooked but little known racing scam at much the same time he met Burke. In January 1983 one of Connell’s horses was the favourite in the AHA Cup at Bunbury but it was up against the highly fancied Strike Softly, ridden by Danny Hobby. Hobby jumped from his mount at the starting gate, later claiming he did so after Connell offered him a $25 000 bribe. Connell subsequently paid Hobby $1 million over four years to live outside Australia. Almost a decade later police visited Hobby in Malaysia and convinced him to break his silence. Connell was later convicted and jailed for conspiring to pervert the course of justice. Connell had a similar reckless disregard for ethics in his business dealings. His nickname, ‘Last Resort Laurie’, conveyed the essence of his business model—he was a risk investor and a risk lender most often associated with financially troubled companies. Connell grabbed deals that no-one else would touch. His main vehicles were LR Connell and Partners, Oakhill Pty Ltd (his main family company) and Rothwells, which was his principal public venture. In the creation of Rothwells, Connell showcased all the qualities for which he was renowned: salesmanship, risk-taking and shiftiness. He purchased trustee status for a merchant bank, enabling him to manage trust funds, notably for charitable organisations. He did so by taking over the publicly listed shell of a Brisbane menswear store, Rothwells Outfitting Ltd. It had a fifteenyear unbroken record for declaring dividends and the requisite shareholders’ capital, both required for trustee status, and it mattered not that this status could be used under new ownership and for different business purposes. The trusteeship status encouraged charities to invest money with the bank thinking it was safe. During his brief but spectacular reign in the early to mid 1980s, Connell wielded significant influence in Perth’s political, financial and social circles. He was, according to one description, ‘a floating mass of financial plasma, and everyone had their tubes into him, from the Catholic Church to the local race meetings’. During these halcyon days, Connell was said to carry $100 000 in cash as his weekend 99

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punting kitty.13 Connell was, simply, a whirlwind blowing in all directions at once. Even though he was a favourite of Perth’s ‘new’ money set, it strains belief that Burke did not know, or could not detect, the political risks Connell posed. If the premier was unaware of the risks, then the high degree of secrecy used to maintain his relationship with Connell would not have been necessary. But, from the earliest days of the Burke government, Connell fulfilled the role of chief financial adviser to Burke, and was often introduced into Burke’s inner circle as such.14 Burke went to the extraordinary length soon after becoming premier of writing a testimonial to Connell, a gushing endorsement of ‘his good standing with the Government and the business community of Western Australia’.15 The implication was clear: anyone intending to conduct business in the state would be advised to employ the services of Connell. Flushed with such access, Connell behaved ‘as if he was untouchable, all powerful, and had the Premier’s protection’.16 Jan Mayman, then a journalist with the National Times, recalls the day she unsuspectingly saw evidence of Connell’s access to Burke: ‘There was a small commotion [in the premier’s office] as a rotund, balding man strode into the ante room and pushed open the Premier’s door without knocking. He was clutching a large pigskin brief case so full of papers it would not close. ‘‘Who was that?’’ I asked. It was Laurie Connell, the well known racing identity and the last person I would have imagined as a political adviser.’17 Inside Burke’s inner circle, Connell soon acquired the nickname ‘Earn’, not as in ‘Ernest’ but as in ‘How much are we going to earn out of this one?’18 Connell’s switch of allegiance from the Liberal Party to Burke was decisive, starting a rush of nouveau riche businessmen to change their political allegiance.19 Alan Bond’s involvement in the WA Inc deals started from the beginning. He and Connell were longstanding friends and business cronies. Born into a poor British mining family, and described as an intelligent, ‘wilful, imaginative child possessed of fierce determination’, Bond also had a craving for success and riches.20 Building a business empire orig100

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inally from sign-writing and land speculation deals, Bond had, by the early 1980s, a reputation in business circles that seemed to grow organically out of the shifting sands of the Western Australian ‘boom and bust’ attitude to business. His biographer, Paul Barry, explains: He has dealt constantly between his public and his private companies, selling assets backwards and forwards, charging fees, receiving commissions, providing services in exchange. Big institutional investors have refused to buy Bond Corporation shares as a consequence: you could never know where the profits would end up, they said, but you always suspected that a large portion would find its way into Alan’s pocket.21 Consequently the ‘old’ establishment of Perth treated Bond a bit like a mangy dog, keeping him at a distance and hoping he’d go away. These old families made it clear they very much disapproved both of the substance and style of the brash young businessman from Fremantle.22 What Bond wanted, clearly, was greater access to government and, like Connell, recognition. By 1988 Bond had built an empire with tentacles across all sectors of the economy. He owned the state’s monopoly brewery, one of Perth’s commercial television stations, the biggest property development business in town, a major oil field, car sales businesses, hotels and radio stations.23 Bond’s victory in the 1983 America’s Cup, just seven months after the Burke government came to power, solidified his relationship with Labor. Amid uproarious celebrations across Australia, Bond became an instant hero. When he arrived back in Perth his relationship with Burke intensified as the latter exploited the rich political dividend of a Western Australian winning the America’s Cup, the rematch to be held in Fremantle four years later. The elevation in his status gave Bond the opportunity to get one back on the Liberal Party which, he felt, had slighted him. The wounds of being marginalised by the natural party of business were still festering after Burke came to power when Bond 101

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derided members of the Liberal Party at a luncheon by saying ‘they had always helped overseas investors in the state but not the local entrepreneurs’. Under Labor, Bond claimed, ‘entrepreneurs such as himself would be given the mandate for any new projects’.24 The Liberals just laughed off his suggestion. One of the more intriguing figures of the WA Inc era was Yosse Goldberg, who had arrived in Perth having studied architecture overseas. Frustrated that his chosen profession would not realise his dream to secure the glitzy lifestyle he observed being enjoyed by the likes of Bond and Connell he started investing on the stock market, an activity he turned into the mysterious art form of ‘deal-arranger and conceptualiser’ for projects as diverse as shopping centres and race tracks. An avid opponent of Labor, he contemptuously dismissed overtures from the federal party in the 1970s to become a donor, reportedly telling his hosts on one occasion, ‘I will eat your oysters and I will eat your steak, but I will never give you communist bastards a single dollar.’ But the effervescent Goldberg had a fatal flaw. He was an enthusiastic but lousy gambler.25 While he lost money on the races, he clearly worked out that Burke’s model of crony capitalism provided the best deals going around. Overt flamboyance was not the hallmark of John Roberts, yet another key WA Inc player. Patriarch of the global building company Multiplex, which he founded in 1961, Roberts was intensely private and shunned the media. Described as ‘one of the old warhorses’ in the rough and tumble construction industry, Roberts created his empire initially in Perth by being builder to the city’s entrepreneurs. They turned to Roberts when they wanted office towers, casinos or shopping centres. Overweight and obsessively hard working, Roberts delivered on his projects by brokering peace with the unions—knowing ‘how to manage the buggers’, as he colourfully described his approach.26 Over the years he formed particularly close relationships with both Connell and Bond. A shared interest in yachting and horseracing cemented the contact. He was a perfect recruit for the cabal: secretive, media-shy, pragmatic and filthy rich.27 102

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Dallas Dempster completes the list of major WA Inc figures. A former bankteller turned developer, he was described by Burke as a ‘very soft, very gentle man’28 but in evidence to the Royal Commission, he was depicted as a ‘corporate opportunist’.29 The core of WA Inc was the connection between Burke, Connell and Bond, always a tightly knit group. The dynamics of this triumvirate are not especially difficult to fathom. All were driven by outsider mentalities, shaped by religion, class and Western Australia’s isolation. Consequently they shared surprisingly similar core personality traits: loads of charm, a talent for salesmanship, ruthlessness and a capacity for intimidation. All harboured grandiose dreams for Western Australia and all could convince themselves that the ends justified the means. But who called the shots among them is the subject of differing interpretations. One view holds that Burke was especially in awe of Bond.30 Once the relationship was cemented, Burke’s need ‘to be everyone’s mate’ made him easy prey to the aggressive, bullying tactics that Bond could employ. Others are unconvinced, surmising that Burke was orchestrating their dealings. One Labor backbencher believes that, ‘Burke thought that he was playing Bond and Connell for mugs. He thought he was in control of the game and he was going to use them to the advantage of Western Australia whose interests would always be better served with Labor in office.’ On the rare occasion when Burke explained his relationship with the ‘four-on-the-floor’ group to his Caucus colleagues, he used the cosy language of class that would appeal to or, at least, calm their concerns. Former Labor parliamentarian Ian Alexander recalls that Burke was able to ‘manipulate people’s feelings, by saying, “This is the anti-establishment establishment. These boys, even though they seem to be rough around the edges, and even though they seem to be doing some shady things, they’re actually going to shake up the real establishment.” ’31 This was a message that Bond was happy to confirm. Now that Burke was in power, Bond was keen to promote the line that Western Australian businesses were finally getting a better deal. In a radio interview in 1986, Bond compared 103

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the Burke government with the previous administration led by Sir Charles Court: ‘We had a circumstance previously when Charles Court was in government here, where if you were a foreigner, you could walk into town, the red carpet would go out and they’d give you an iron ore mine to develop . . . under Burke we’ve got a situation where the Government is saying, ‘‘Look, if you’re a Western Australian company we will try and give you the opportunity to do some developments here.’’ And that’s the way it should be.’32 High-profile financier Robert Holmes à Court sat on the fringes of this group. He preferred to operate largely on his own and was distrusted by Burke for being ‘a formidable and powerful person’, an opportunist with a good knowledge of politics.33 While conveying the image of being a self-made millionaire, Holmes à Court had actually come from a privileged background. As a university student he had owned two cars, including a Porsche, and had had a private telephone installed into his university apartment so that he could play his newly acquired passion for the stock market.34 He went on to become one of Australia’s most feared corporate raiders. Burke saw Holmes à Court as someone he could not control and therefore sought to block at every opportunity. The emerging entrepreneurs at the centre of Burke’s business network symbolised a cultural shift towards a veneration of wealth. This not only seduced the ALP but penetrated wider society and its institutions. In Western Australia Alan Bond’s ‘can-do’ approach spearheaded this cultural shift with his ‘Bond Tower’, a modern glass skyscraper topped with a sculptured pinnacle. Built in the early 1980s, it was Perth’s tallest high-rise as journalists Peter Smark and Mark Skulley observed: Another example of Perth at work is the city’s tallest building. Alan Bond planned it and owns it. Its construction was delayed for years because the historic Palace Hotel had been a landmark on the site since the gold rushes. The hotel was classified by the National Trust and Bond was allowed to build a bigger skyscraper, provided he retained the hotel. Today [1988], the skyscraper soars above the 104

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gutted and revamped shell of the old hotel which will soon re-emerge as a bank. Mr Bond originally pledged to retain the hotel as it stood; what stands now is, in the words of one Perth city councillor: ‘a 1980s version of an historic building’. Once again ‘Multiplex Jack’ John Roberts did the building and Mick Michael [Lord Mayor of Perth] worked on the wiring.35 Indeed such an overt display of wealth symbolised the power that the new elite had acquired. ‘Way below Alan Bond, there is an army of ambitious little entrepreneurs trying to emulate him. It’s easy to laugh at some, with blond tips in their hair, moustaches, double-breasted suits, personalised number plates and body language straight out of success seminars.’36 However, not everyone was taken in. For many, such a ‘wheelerdealer’ business culture seemed more like snake oil salesmanship than legitimate business enterprise. Sociologists probed its deeper cultural meanings. Burke’s enthusiastic embrace of entrepreneurs was symbolic of a larger shift in personal values, articulated by academic Ronald Conway as the ‘identification of one’s very soul with socio-economic achievement’ and a ‘dangerous bargain, worthy of Faust’.37 This shift was manifest in Western Australians’ attitudes to wealth, which set them apart from the rest of the nation. The ‘get rich quick’, ‘boom and bust’ mentality of the state’s gigantic but fickle resources industry made those seeking riches there a hard-nosed breed to deal with; less refined, more opportunistic than those seeking wealth in other states. A businessman from the eastern states who came to Perth in the early 1990s described Perth as a ‘working class dormitory for the mining industry’. He discovered a city without much sentiment: ‘People make money one day and lose it the next . . . People here fight harder, they are less polite. And it’s bloody tough—you cut it or you don’t.’38 Burke used this can-do approach as a model for the changes he made to the state superannuation board soon after gaining office. He had had his eye on the millions in its coffers for some time which, he thought, 105

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could be used for development projects. He brought in a loyalist, Len Brush, whose wife, Brenda, was his personal assistant, to head up the agency. Brush had few qualifications for the job but he nonetheless quickly put in place a new high-risk investment strategy which ‘gave himself the freedom to strike whatever deals he liked, with whom he liked, whenever he liked, provided the Premier agreed’.39

The scandals that unravelled as WA Inc had their origins in the period soon after Burke was elected to office. His first foray into business centred on the purchase by the state government of Northern Mining, a diamonddrilling company operating at Argyle in the north-west of Western Australia. Northern Mining had been recently bought by Endeavour Mining, a company in Alan Bond’s stable, for a price considerably more than its market value. Bond needed to offload Northern Mining to stave off mounting debts. Enter Laurie Connell, Bond’s long-time mate and newly appointed de facto financial adviser to the Burke government. In July 1983 Connell initiated discussions with Burke about whether the government might be interested in acquiring the company. But Connell was not a disinterested party to these discussions; he was, in fact, operating for Bond. Under an arrangement with Bond Corporation, Connell was to be paid $5 million if he convinced the government to purchase Northern Mining. Both Burke and Connell tried to keep the matter of Connell’s fee a secret. The conflict of interest was glaring. Burke and his senior advisers went to considerable lengths to keep the purchase of Northern Mining secret from Treasury. Without an evaluation from Treasury or the Department of Resources Development detailing either the wisdom of the purchase or the appropriate price, the deal was left in Burke’s hands to finalise but this started to get tricky. Through Connell, Bond was spruiking for a purchase price of $50 million, $8 million more than Endeavour had originally paid for the company. This price would give Bond a profit even after paying Connell his $5 million fee, effectively from the government coffers. 106

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Burke, however, was insistent that the government pay no more than the (already inflated) $42 million that Bond originally paid. With the deal done at that price, Burke personally took charge of matters which resulted in a Cabinet decision approving the acquisition of Northern Mining. As the Royal Commission later found: When Cabinet made this decision it was unaware of the suitability of the firm, L R Connell & Partners to advise the Government on a proposal of such complexity. Nor was it informed that L R Connell & Partners were also acting as agents for the vendor, Bond Corporation, and that L R Connell & Partners would receive a fee from Bond in relation to the sale . . . Mr Burke was fully aware of these matters but deliberately chose not to tell his Cabinet colleagues.40 The cost to the taxpayers of Burke’s meddling was somewhere between $12 million and $22 million; in other words, the actual value of Northern Mining was between $20 million and $30 million. Connell managed to cream off his $5 million fee from the deal. Burke may not have known the true value of Northern Mining because he did not ask for advice from Treasury or the Department of Resources Development. The corrupted process allowed him a free hand, and in playing this hand Burke revealed characteristics that would become his trademarks through the entire WA Inc saga: secretiveness, deception and risk-taking. This early deal also demonstrated other aspects of his relationship with Perth’s entrepreneurs. Burke was prepared to do their private bidding. At some point in the Northern Mining buyout, Connell approached Burke to gain his support to secure a $20-million refinancing loan for Bond Corporation through the state-owned R & I Bank. That a premier would act on behalf of a specific company showed just how far business rules in Western Australia were changing towards crony capitalism. Burke approached the chairman of the bank, Mr D.P. Fischer, who, at the premier’s urging, bypassed normal bank practice which stipulated that all applications above $5 million had to go before the board. In fact 107

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the chairman approved the loan despite the express disapproval of one of the bank’s directors, Dennis Whitely, who had ‘reservations about the borrower’ and concerns about the security being offered. When questioned by the board about approval for the loan, Fischer indicated ‘he had had discussions with the Premier who tied it into Government plans’.41 Whether or not Burke was co-opted into acting as Bond’s front man, he found a way to extract a benefit from the deal. When he learned that Connell was paid $500 000 by Bond for arranging the refinancing, Burke pounced on this payment and extracted a donation to the Labor Party of $50 000.42

Bigger projects were in the offing. Labor came to office committed to the construction of a casino and early in 1984 commenced the process of choosing between competing bids. As Minister for Tourism, Burke oversaw the process. Controversy dogged the project from the beginning with widespread rumours and innuendos that the frontrunner for the project was a grand and ambitious proposal put up by Dallas Dempster and the Malaysian-based company Genting. An early attempt to award the project to Dempster/Genting was thwarted by a conscientious public servant who stood up to Burke about the lack of transparency in the selection process. Uncharacteristically, Burke agreed to restart the process and an advisory committee was established. Nonetheless, Dempster’s bid, thought by many to be the most impressive, was believed to have been given the inside running. Throughout 1984 and early 1985 persistent allegations were made about favouritism. With a pointed dig at Dempster’s proposal, deputy opposition leader Barry MacKinnon told parliament that the ‘highest bidder will get it all—and we all know who that is’.43 A prominent Liberal upper house member was even more forthcoming, claiming the casino project was surrounded by bad odours: ‘The Government’s desire, it seems, is to fast-track certain projects for certain people, while the remainder of the business community has to abide by the law.’44 Even a 108

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prominent Labor minister, Arthur Tonkin, had reservations. When giving evidence to the Royal Commission into WA Inc, he said that the Dempster bid was ‘secure long before State Cabinet gave its approval . . . There may have been two or three Ministers with a similar view, but as far as I could observe, it was Burke’s idea.’45 Asked by the commission how Mr Burke’s influence could have extended to the public service casino subcommittee, Tonkin replied: ‘You would be aware of the enormous influence Mr Burke has over people. It would have been in character if he exercised influence over the committee.’46 Allegations of favouritism were hard to quash given the secrecy that surrounded the government’s deliberations.47 There were other irregularities in the selection process which involved the ‘four-on-the-floor’ group: Connell was paid a $2-million consultancy fee by Dempster and Roberts; and only four weeks before Dempster’s consortium was chosen as one of two finalists for the casino Dempster, a Liberal Party member, began making large donations to the ALP. Multiplex owner John Roberts was also coincidentally donating large amounts at this time.48 Behind the scenes, the casino development was preoccupying Les Ayton, a detective inspector with the WA police. An experienced fraud investigator, he had a nose for sniffing out crooked deals. Described by his commissioner as ‘a skilled and resourceful investigator’,49 Ayton once acknowledged that ‘good detectives have to take the law to the knife’s edge’.50 He was drawn into the casino tendering process when the government realised at the eleventh hour that it had not obtained police clearance for operating a casino for either of the two preferred bidders, Dempster/Genting and a consortium comprising Federal Hotels and Harrahs. Given no resources for the job and little more than a week to report back, Ayton compiled a bare bones report on the corporate histories of both bidders by phoning contacts in police services around Australia. His initial report to the government contained a warning that question marks surrounded the corporate reputation of both proponents and he signalled the need for a more exhaustive investigation. 109

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Upon receiving this advice the government asked the police to focus all its energies on just the Dempster/Genting bid saying, in effect, ‘these are the ones we want’. Ayton uncovered further evidence of Dempster’s dubious corporate reputation and then flew to Malaysia to inquire into Genting’s, travelling with Minister for Racing and Gaming Des Dans. There he met the Malaysian assistant commissioner for police, who presented him with a prepared dossier promoting the bona fides of the company. Again with no resources to call on, Ayton had to be content with little more than a cup of tea with the Malaysian authorities before being waved on. And again he offered the government cautionary advice about accepting the Dempster/Genting bid, which it promptly ignored. During 1984 journalists working for the West Australian, Daily News, Western Mail and other publications all ran stories alleging that Dempster/Genting had been given the inside running and that information had been leaked to Dempster about the government’s preferred site. In April Daily News journalist John Arthur prefaced an extended interview with Dempster by saying that his bid was ‘surrounded by controversy’.51 But despite these early attempts to probe the background to the deal critics were unable to expose any wrongdoing and, at the end of 1984, Dempster/Genting was awarded the licence for the casino. Crucially, the bid was accepted without any official police clearance having been granted. Work soon began on the Burswood Casino—a 400-room, five-star luxury hotel and casino with additional facilities for conventions, sport and entertainment. Suggestions that the process had been tarnished continued to swirl around the project. Then in February 1985 Western Mail journalist Martin Saxon was handed a report based on Treasury documents that resulted in a page-one story questioning the financial viability of all the applicants, including the winner. The report said there were doubts about Dempster’s and Genting’s financial capacity, and that no evidence had been provided to back up the calculation of costs in their proposal.52 By chance, on the day the report was published Dempster had been on Bob Maumill’s program, where he was asked straight out if any bribes 110

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were paid to obtain the casino contract. ‘No such thing as money changed hands in any direction,’ Dempster replied.53 Adding zest to Saxon’s story were exclusive pictures given to him by sources in the Liberal Party which, although grainy, showed Dempster at a London casino on ‘an unpublished world casino tour’. Even though the tour took place after the granting of the casino licence, the presence of another person with Dempster created a stir: ‘And one of the senior public servants who recommended their ambitious proposal . . . joined them in the round the world tour.’ Saxon had a growing reputation as the state’s foremost investigative journalist. Trained in northern England, he left to travel the world, and following stints in Spain, Sydney and New York ended up in Perth in 1980. One of his earliest major investigations was into the infamous ‘bottom-of-the-harbour’ tax scams of the 1970s and early 1980s and links between Western Australians and the Liberal Party. He had a particular fascination for stories about the intersection of money and politics. According to a close colleague, he was firmly grounded in the British tradition of ‘playing by the book’. He disliked people who took shortcuts and who were, in his own often used word, ‘rorters’. Western Australia proved fertile ground for his particular absorption. Saxon developed an extensive network of highly placed sources, and his ability to keep these confidential undoubtedly helped him produce a regular stream of stories that took many of the scandals head on and some of the players involved in WA Inc head on. Sharp, energetic and with a forensic command of detail, he carved out a career from the 1980s to the mid 1990s writing high-impact pieces on the cronyism of the Burke government, later focusing on several of Burke’s own dubious dealings. Writing in 1992, in the wake of the WA Inc Royal Commission, Saxon reflected on the limited personal contact he had had with Burke: ‘He tried to woo me only once, in 1982, when he was leader of the Labor Opposition. I came away thinking that he was capable of conning his grandmother.’54 Meanwhile Ayton’s investigations of the Burswood Casino continued. He was appointed head of the security division of the Casino 111

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Control Committee with the task of vetting all those who had taken up senior management positions. As this was happening, the project ran into cost overruns. A share rights issue to raise additional capital was declared for the expected $75-million shortfall and was published in a glossy prospectus. Ayton’s suspicions were aroused by the prospectus, as was his concern that false claims had been made by the operators to justify their rights issue. His confidential report to the Commissioner of Police, and subsequently to the Director of Public Prosecutions (DPP), alleged that Dempster/Genting should be charged under the Companies Act. According to Ayton, the report went to the head of the Corporate Affairs Department with support from the DPP for charges to be laid, but no action was taken by the department. To the WA Inc Royal Commission, Ayton later explained: . . . that there was some Government interference in the decision not to pursue a prosecution with respect to the Burswood Casino cost overruns and rights issue inquiry . . . In substance he [Ayton] told the Commission that he believed an offence had been committed. His recommendation went to the Corporate Affairs Department, but no prosecution was instituted. The combined effect of these matters, according to Mr Ayton, led him to a concern about Government interference in police matters generally.55 Ayton had briefed Corporate Affairs Commissioner Alan Smith extensively over the issue, and he maintained Smith agreed there was a case against the casino operator. As Ayton said in his evidence to the Royal Commission: ‘We then discussed the problems that such charges would cause the government. Mr Smith said that there was enough material that had been collected to warrant a royal commission. In fact, Ayton told the commission he believed that Burswood Management minutes had been tampered with.56 But, out of the blue, he heard a radio report in November 1987 that Smith had recommended against proceeding with the prosecution. Ayton said he ‘became quite disillusioned 112

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and disenchanted with the process that we were involved in’.57 Smith’s reasons for not proceeding with the prosecution are not known. In the wake of the cost overruns, Martin Saxon’s attention was also drawn to the prospectus and, in particular, a small section setting out fees. Overlooked in the public reporting of the bid were huge project management fees—an unusually high 10.25 per cent of the project cost. As Saxon pointed out, Dempster and his Malaysian partners, who had both failed to convince either Treasury or the police of their bona fides, were now entitled to $29 million in fees—$8 million of that as a result of the cost overruns.58 The fees seemed exorbitant but, on the surface, they didn’t appear illegal. Saxon wrote a front page story about the issue, but it did not spark any further interest in the allegations of impropriety. But as the plans for building the casino unfolded, the suggestion that something was smelly started to gain some currency. Commitments given about how the project would proceed started to change without explanation. According to Saxon, ‘The project started happening in a different way. These guys were getting a dream run. Why is this? It seemed a bit too much the greasy wheel.’59 In response to his casino coverage, Saxon began to receive calls from members of the public. One caller claimed that Dallas Dempster had kicked in a five-figure sum to the Labor Party. How could a former member of the Liberal Party’s finance committee bring himself to donate to the ALP, especially such a large amount? The information simply did not seem credible. And there was no evidence to prove the donation had been made. Undeterred, Saxon decided to approach Dempster and ask if he had ever donated to Labor. Dempster’s lawyer’s reply was rudely dismissive: ‘It is public knowledge that our client’s companies have always been prominent supporters of the Liberal Party of which our client is an active member.’60 Later on Dallas Dempster admitted lying to his lawyers about the donations. For all the probing by both Ayton and journalists, no definitive evidence that the casino deal was linked to political favours was found. The Royal Commission would later conclude that no impropriety had 113

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occurred in the awarding of the casino contract. Nevertheless it indicated its disquiet over several matters. It noted the coincidence of large donations at the time the government was actively considering proposals but said the evidence had not allowed it to reach any conclusions.61 It also noted that records in the Premier’s Department ‘which may well have been important to the inquiry’ had been destroyed.62 Martin Saxon later reflected on the obstacles impeding full examination of the casino deal: It was after the decision to award the Burswood casino contract to businessman Dallas Dempster in 1984 that I began to spend a lot of time—and my various employers’ money—being as smart as I could to show that things in Burkedom were not all they seemed. It wasn’t easy. Investigative journalism which questioned the deals and the business practices of ‘four-on-the-floor’ entrepreneurs were not so popular then. Critics . . . [of WA Inc] were attacked with the overplayed ‘tall poppy’ argument, of ‘sour grapes’, of knocking the State’s economic future, of being ill-informed and, even worse, of being madly obsessed with conspiracy theories.63 Today, Saxon argues the media should have done more to probe the links between government and business but how much this would have achieved is uncertain. As he admits, ‘No-one really believed things were quite as bad as they turned out to be’.64 Secrecy and, some allege, political interference kept a lid on Burke’s dealings. Nothing on this scale had ever happened before. The casino remained a lingering sore for the government. Several years after his initial investigations Martin Saxon reopened the story with a leaked copy of a secret report to the attorney-general alleging that Dempster and his Genting partners ‘had seriously misled investors’ over the cost overruns and that doubts existed about the decision by Corporate Affairs not to lay charges.65 After the publication of the story, Saxon’s office at the Daily News was raided by police and documents 114

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seized on the instructions of the attorney-general, Joe Berinson, who alleged an offence had been committed under the Criminal Code. Saxon’s home was also searched. The Australian Journalists Association called the raid ‘heavy-handed and unnecessary’, while the Opposition saw even more sinister implications: ‘A police raid on a newspaper is taken as a matter of course in countries where control of the nation is assumed by a military dictator.’66 If the casino deal showed how hard it was to penetrate the workings of WA Inc, other irregularities in Burke’s early dealings proved equally elusive to pin down. Jan Mayman, then Perth-based correspondent for the National Times, received a visit from State Energy Commission executives carrying documents outlining a deal Burke had in mind to build an aluminium smelter with a dubious South Korean company. Concerned that the proposal was ‘wildly uneconomic’, the executives wanted Mayman to publish the documents. After the story was run in the National Times, Mayman was visited by police searching for what they claimed to be leaked documents. And that was just the beginning of weeks of harassment. A ‘well briefed’ and unsympathetic media descended on her home.67 When Burke called a media conference to ramp up the ‘leaked document’ claim,68 Mayman asked if either Burke or resources minister Parker had sent the police to her home. The premier avoided the question. Mayman issued a complaint against Burke to the Australian Journalists Association, of which he remained a member. Expecting further unannounced calls from the police, she opted for peace when a Burke minder contacted her with an offer: drop the action against Burke through the association and the government would stop any further action. The Korean-led consortium disappeared the following year, never to be seen again in Perth.69

Eighteen months after his first direct contact with the ‘four-on-thefloor’ entrepreneurs, Burke conceived the idea of a slush fund—the Leader’s Account—a secret stash of money established as the ‘No1 115

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Advertising Account’ with the Town and Country WA Building Society. Over time, five separate accounts were opened through which donations from the entrepreneurs were channelled. Only Burke and his loyal secretary, Brenda Brush, controlled the funds and knew how much was in them. Leader’s Accounts were accepted practice in Labor politics at both federal and state levels and indeed the previous state ALP leader Ron Davies maintained such an account but one, he was at pains to stress, that held a maximum of $4000!70 Therefore any suggestion that Burke had a Leader’s Account would not have been of concern. When the state secretary of the Labor Party, Michael Beahan, clashed with the premier over Burke’s management of party funds, Burke had Beahan removed as signatory to the accounts.71 Laurie Connell was a prime target in Burke’s plans to raise millions for the party. Connell made an initial $300 000 available and Burke sent Brenda Brush to L.R. Connell and Partners to collect the money. She made an improbable ‘bag lady’. More matronly than maverick in appearance and demeanour, it is hard to imagine her taking part in any risky venture. But she had been a Burke loyalist for years and Burke had a way of persuading people to do his bidding. Brenda Brush set out for the rendezvous carrying a briefcase initialled B.T.B. (Burke’s middle name is Thomas). Upon her arrival at Connell’s office she found the money waiting and counted the entire amount on the spot. Placing the money in the briefcase she took it to the Town and Country WA Building Society, having first telephoned the manager to say she was coming with a substantial amount of cash. Ushered into his office, she deposited the cash into an account she had opened the previous day. Securing donations in this manner appears to be straight from the Huey Long political manual. According to Long’s biographer: Every contribution to Huey’s fund was, as far as can be determined, in the form of cash. And every expenditure was in cash. Huey was not, if he could help it, going to leave any documentary evidence for his enemies to seize on. But there were problems involved in handling 116

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large sums of cash. The money had to be kept somewhere; and when Huey, campaigning over the state, needed a certain amount, he had to have some reliable person he could telephone to bring it to him.72 Just as Burke did, Huey sent his personal secretary to collect the cash donations. And the similarities did not end there. In his quest to remain in power, Long understood that contributions to his campaign would need to be spent on more than election campaigns. Part of the largesse was handed out ‘to parish leaders who asked for help in local elections’.73 Connell claimed that in 1985 Burke set out with a plan to raise $4.5 million from Perth entrepreneurs. This figure has been confirmed by others.74 For his part, Connell knew donations were the price to be paid for doing business with Burke. He later likened it to a toll. Yosse Goldberg was on Burke’s hit list. He said that he was simply summonsed to see Burke, whereupon the premier ‘got straight down to the point’, directly requesting a donation. Burke didn’t just ask for a donation, he told Goldberg what he would pay.75 In fact sums of $300 000 were each paid by Roberts, Connell, Goldberg and Bond. In all, Dempster gave more than $800 000 to the ALP between 1983 and 1989 and Roberts donated $692 000. The Royal Commission found that between 1982 and 1989 around $7 million was donated to the ALP by thirteen named businessmen through Burke.76 From one of these large donations, Burke took $100 000 and placed it in his office safe.77 In addition, the John Curtin Foundation is estimated to have raised $850 000 between 1984 and 1986.78 When he established the Leader’s Account Burke had lost none of his antipathy for Perth’s ‘old money’. Responding to criticism that he was favouring the entrepreneurs who donated to the John Curtin Foundation, the premier publicly accused Perth’s wealthiest families of trying to destabilise his government. Singling out the ‘Peppermint Grove– Dalkeith set’—residents of Perth’s most exclusive suburbs—Burke lashed out that they ‘have always thought we can maintain our position in business and status by staying in with Liberal governments. This is the 117

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establishment in this State. They are either old money or people who have married into money.’79 With this money, Burke dabbled with plans to be the Godfather of ALP election funding across the country. He started with the 1986 Western Australian election. This state-of-the art campaign kicked off with a launch at the ritzy downtown Sheraton Hotel with a ten-minute video of ‘The Leader’. Saturation television advertisements had never been as sophisticated, with high-quality production and targeted messages. Reinforcing the effort were extended marginal seat campaigns. Re-election was never in doubt. This tilt at a second term in office set new national benchmarks in election campaigning. In the process, Labor is estimated to have outspent the Liberals five to one.

Straddling the pre- and post-1986 state election period, Burke was working behind the scenes with Connell on yet another deal—the purchase by the State Energy Commission (SECWA) of a rival gas company operating in Fremantle. Connell must have rubbed his hands with glee the day in early February 1985 when Burke proposed the purchase of Fremantle Gas and Coke. Connell later explained to his solicitor that he could not be ‘up front’ about the deal because of the political sensitivity of the matter. His involvement had to be secret.80 The deal had all the hallmarks of the crony capitalism that was now entrenched in Western Australia: Connell would arrange a suitable financier for the purchase for which he would be paid a huge commission for doing comparatively little; the grateful buyers would donate to the ALP and Burke would direct the process in secret, revelling in the opportunity to play with the ‘Big End’ of town. Burke’s intervention in the deal seems to have been motivated by his desire to play politics among the entrepreneurial class. At the time, a bitter enmity had developed between Alan Bond and Robert Holmes à Court, who also had his eye on Fremantle Gas and Coke. Through his control of Bell Resources, Holmes à Court had access to gas reserves, 118

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and Burke was worried the purchase would enhance the entrepreneur’s power and influence. To Burke, Holmes à Court was a skilled operator, someone who could seize ‘an opportunity . . . and be difficult to deal with after capitalising on it’.81 Burke was also helping to protect Alan Bond’s interests against those of Holmes à Court. Rivals in the entrepreneurial marketplace, their antipathy was as much personal as commercial. In backing Bond, Burke acted as if he were playing off rival pretenders in a game of princely politics. Even though he wanted to thwart Holmes à Court, he insisted that the urbane and acutely sharp financial titan could not be put offside by having the company purchased by either Connell or Bond. Burke said as much to Connell himself, which is why Connell understood that even if his interests in buying the company were to be stymied, he would still be eligible for a sizable fee for facilitating the purchase. Connell was eventually paid $450 000 to negotiate the deal. Negotiations to secure the purchase of Fremantle Gas and Coke began at the start of 1985 and were not finalised until the end of the following year. The drawn out process had endless twists and turns as key players jockeyed for advantage. But the essentials were these: hoping to thwart the intentions of Robert Holmes à Court to purchase the gas company, Burke sent Connell on a secret mission to find a buyer to ‘take out’ the company prior to its purchase by SECWA. The entire process was like an episode of Keystone Cops, with predictably disastrous results. Connell and Burke decided that Connell would bring in Yosse Goldberg to be the ‘take out’ financier and Burke would appoint Minister for Minerals and Energy David Parker as his man. The ambitious, curly haired and nerdish-looking Parker was articulate and intelligent, but he was also prone to outbursts of arrogance. His eagerness to be involved in Burke’s secret dealings was not just the result of his ministerial responsibilities. Known to harbour his own long-term leadership ambitions, Parker was no doubt keen to elicit Burke’s ongoing support. As it turned out, Parker and Connell did not need to exercise much persuasion on Goldberg because his company, Western Continental, had its roving eye 119

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on the gas business already. In fact, when Connell suggested to Burke that Goldberg be the ‘take out’ man, he may have already known of Goldberg’s interest. However, closing the deal quickly became impossible because Holmes à Court persisted with his bid for a takeover of the company. He made his intentions known to Parker, who then had to relay them to Connell. A bidding war for Fremantle Gas and Coke ensued. Eventually Holmes à Court agreed to sell his interest in the company for $5.20 a share and other shareholders did the same, leaving Western Continental the owner of a company now valued at $24 million.82 Knowing that the state government would be the eventual buyer of Fremantle Gas and Coke, Goldberg set about to increase the value of his asset. He convinced Parker to treble its authorised capital, which in one year trebled the dividend paid to him and significantly increased the overall value of the company. Then in August 1986 Connell, Parker and Goldberg met at Connell’s house to discuss the sale of the company to SECWA. The ‘entirely confidential’ meeting took place after hours away from prying eyes in a multistorey office block. The agreed price for the company was almost $40 million, or nearly double what the government could have paid for it a year earlier. Not only was Cabinet kept in the dark about the decision to buy Fremantle Gas and Coke, but Parker did not discuss with Burke the price to be paid even though the premier was well aware of the general outlines of the emerging deal.83 Celebrating the handsome deal over a bottle of whiskey, Parker found it easy to appeal to Goldberg’s public spiritedness by suggesting he put something back into the community, recommending the Spare Parts Puppet Theatre in his electorate. Goldberg gave $125 000 to the theatre which was in addition to the generous donations he made to Burke’s burgeoning Leader’s Accounts. But Parker received what later was alleged to be a benefit additional to that obtained for his electorate. The Royal Commission found that less than a month after the settlement Goldberg drew out $35 000 from Western Continental and, on the following day, Parker produced over $12 000 in cash from a briefcase and used it as a deposit on a house in 120

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Fremantle. A month later he opened a savings account into which he put $11 100 in $100 bills. Following these revelations in the Royal Commission, Parker faced charges in court of stealing from his election campaign funds and of lying to the Royal Commission. He was subsequently jailed, though the stealing charge was later overturned on appeal. The Fremantle Gas and Coke deal attracted the attention of the Liberal Opposition. Liberal leader Bill Hassell persistently questioned the deal in parliament, raising the ire of both Connell and Burke, highlighting the power that together they wielded in Perth business and political circles. According to Connell, Burke instructed him to get the Liberal MPs together to ‘pour oil on the water’ of their disquiet. A meeting was to be held in Connell’s office. As a journalist later explained: ‘Word got out and Hassell, incensed at what he deemed a summons, refused to attend. Call it coincidence but just weeks later he was deposed.’84

Connell was enjoying his power and notoriety. He thought nothing of paying $500 000 for a horse even though he owned 400 of them. He added a new trajectory to the term ‘the high life’. One of his drinking buddies recalled: ‘He’d call you up to lunch and say, ‘‘I’ve got five air hostesses here, come down’’ and the Moet would be flowing and you’d have a big piss-up . . . he made the town buzz for five years.’85 On one occasion he hired a train to go to the Bunbury Cup south of Perth, and filled it with friends and 600 bottles of Veuve Clicquot. Twelve hours later, and with Connell $30 000 lighter in pocket, the train chugged merrily back to Perth with a boisterous crowd of revellers.86 As Connell’s political donations grew, so did his respectability. Burke pressed for him to receive an Order of Australia. In fact while he was on the golf course in mid 1986, the premier rang an officer in the Department of Premier and Cabinet, instructing him to speed up Connell’s appointment to the order. The officer reminded Burke that it was undesirable for him the as premier to be sponsoring a particular nominee, so Burke gave him the names of others, including Alan Bond, who was 121

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already a member of the Order of Australia.87 Unfortunately for Connell the stock market crash intervened before his nomination could be processed. Burke may have thought he had Connell’s measure, but even at the height of his fame those close to him thought he was untrustworthy. As one of Connell’s associates said, ‘He’s not the sort of bloke you’d go to war with. He’d be selling bullets to both sides.’88 By 1987 Burke had a sickening feeling that his relationship with Connell was heading for disaster. A Burke confidant told the Sydney Morning Herald early that year that the premier had become worried about the political implications of Connell’s behaviour.89 When his horse Rocket Racer won the Perth Cup by nine lengths, an exuberant Connell said that he had had some ‘small change on the horse’ ($30 000 to $40 000) and then shouted the members’ bar for two hours. Such a public display of wealth looked ugly and signified that Connell was ‘out of control’.90 Burke would not have known just how out of control Connell was on that day. Rocket Racer, which had never before run that distance, staggered back for the weigh-in where officials, concerned about the distressed condition of the horse, injected an anti-inflammatory drug. This intervention negated any possibility of a swab being carried out but swabs had been taken of two other horses owned by Connell and both were found to contain traces of a stimulant. While there was no conclusive proof, suspicions existed at the time that Connell, who had personally backed his horse into the position of favourite, was involved in or condoned doping. Connell’s probable snaky racing tricks were just a reflection of his approach to life—and business. An accountant close to the Rothwells Bank reflected: ‘Connell must have approached banking like gambling . . . He would look at a loan and calculate the odds—10 to 1, for instance, that it would be repaid. Every three years or so, he would come up with a spectacular deal.’91 In between time, people loved going to Laurie for money. As one banker explained, ‘They could go in at 9 a.m. and have their money with very little paper work.’92 But there was something even more insidious about Connell’s business model. Rothwells 122

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had increasingly been a front for his own private companies. Money came in through the front door in the form of depositors’ funds— attracted by the high rates of interest Connell offered—and out it went through the back door to Connell’s own companies. Much of this money was squandered on bad investments and on his lavish lifestyle but ‘as long as more money was flowing in through the front door than Connell was taking out through the back, the depositors never noticed’.93 Burke may have been worried by Connell’s erratic behaviour at the beginning of 1987, but this did not stop him enlisting the high-flyer for another round of election fundraising, this time for federal Labor’s 1987 election campaign. One million dollars was sent in four separate cheques by Brenda Brush to Canberra for the ALP campaign. Later investigations by Martin Saxon showed that the money passed through at least two ALP accounts before reaching the party’s federal campaign coffers. Saxon argued this shifting around of the money was designed to conceal the identities of the donors and to avoid disclosing the origins of the money in the Australian Electoral Commission returns.94 Of the $1 million, Connell claimed to have donated $250 000.95 To expedite the fundraising effort for the federal election, Burke’s brother Terry, who had recently resigned from parliament, was appointed as official fundraiser in Western Australia on a 25 per cent commission, a deal approved by the ALP State Secretary, Michael Beahan. Beahan later told Martin Saxon, who broke the story about Terry’s $600 000 commission, that it was negotiated between himself and Terry Burke but with Brian’s input: ‘Brian Burke was also involved in the arrangements because the payments were made through the Leader’s Account.’96 Terry Burke himself confirmed to the Royal Commission that he had received $600 000 in commissions, about half of it from a 1987 lunch attended by Prime Minister Bob Hawke, brother Brian and businessmen Alan Bond, Laurie Connell, Dallas Dempster and John Roberts.97 The financial relationships between the Burke brothers were also of great interest to the WA Inc Royal Commission before which ‘Brian Burke . . . admitted to having received a $185 000 interest-free loan from his 123

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brother but denied the loan was in any way connected to money paid to Mr Terry Burke as commission for raising Labor Party funds’.98 It was yet another example of Burke’s ability to take existing procedures, in this case party fundraising, and push them to the limits. The Royal Commission would later conclude that this loan amounted to Burke receiving a personal benefit from ALP fundraising: ‘there is no doubt that Mr Burke himself derived personal benefit from fundraising activities . . . [obtaining] a substantial interest free loan from his brother, Mr Terry Burke, out of the commission which the latter derived from his fundraising activities.’99 In fact fundraising for the ALP was something of a family affair for the Burkes. On one occasion Brian enlisted one of his sons in the funding drive for the 1987 election, as Martin Saxon reported: Peter Burke, then 19, had the job of visiting various Perth businesses to pick up cash or cheques. The fund raising campaign, with a $250 000 target, ran for about three weeks and raised about $80 000. Mr Burke had written a personal letter to WA businessmen soliciting funds. This was followed up by a team of telephone canvassers [who were] paid a 10 per cent commission on each donation they secured. One donation, picked up by Peter Burke, was for $200 from the accountant . . . of Perth’s biggest and best-known brothel madam.100 Investigations by the Age newspaper in 1991 revealed that, in addition to funding the federal election, Burke had helped bankroll state election campaigns in New South Wales and South Australia. Such generosity defied tradition—state parties jealously guarded their own finances and directing monetary contributions from one state branch to another was unheard of.101 In spreading around his campaign funds, Burke was no doubt trying to enhance his reputation in the party and particularly if he sought to follow his father into federal politics. The readiness of the wider Labor Party to accept largesse from Western Australia without asking too many questions was symptomatic of the changing culture of 124

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the ALP in the 1980s. For some, Labor’s embrace of this change showed the party’s new electoral pragmatism; others believed the party was selling its soul. The Sydney Morning Herald captured the changing mood at the top echelons of the party: For decades the ALP had spurned wealth. But these labor politicians—State and Federal—wore pinstripes and needed mates. The corporate establishment was too close to the conservatives to be trusted, so that left only the ‘four-on-the-floor’ entrepreneurs . . . The Federal Government’s most cherished PR shot was of a dinner-suited Prime Minister, clutching a fat cigar, flanked by Kerry Packer and Alan Bond at a business function in Sydney; 10 of Perth’s high-fliers were named as vice-patrons of Burke’s Curtin Foundation; Laurie Connell was on the board of the National Gallery; after the 1987 election Mr Hawke took a break—fishing off the North-West Coast with Connell and the very private property tycoon and mate of Treasurer Paul Keating, Warren Anderson.102 Burke was, simply, the best in the business at political fundraising for a party that ‘had become obsessed with winning and success’.103 To put his dazzling efforts into perspective, it is worth comparing him to Labor’s acknowledged second most effective fundraiser, Senator Graham Richardson. Richardson’s fundraising efforts on behalf of the party were described by journalist Marian Wilkinson in an article for the Age titled ‘The Fixer’. At one fundraiser held at the prime minister’s Sydney’s residence, Kirribilli House, ‘Richo’ swanned among the millionaires and multimillionaires putting the ‘hard word’ on the guests for their money. He hoped that each of the guests might be good for an amount anywhere between $30 000 and $100 000, thus comfortably lining Labor’s war chest for the election. The cheques would be collected after the election—this way the donations could be written off to the party’s administrative fund. Richardson was not doing anything illegal, as Wilkinson explained: 125

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Richardson was canny enough to avoid allegations of corruption. He would always agree to open doors for Labor donors but would never guarantee the result. ‘You won’t find a person who gave me money and then got a government decision,’ Richardson insisted. ‘You can’t find that. I know you can’t because I’ve been very careful for a long time’. He was, it seemed, the perfect law-abiding political bagman.104 Buoyed by the millions rolling into the party, Burke’s attraction to risk-taking emerged again when he opened a gold-trading account with a series of deals financed by $250 000 taken from the Leader’s Account. In what was described as ‘extraordinary behaviour’, Burke instructed Goldcorp, the government trading agency for which he held ministerial responsibility and which was headed by a former senior adviser to him, ‘to trade in gold anonymously through accounts in fictitious names’.105 Burke would later explain the gold-trading account was opened to raise money for the party. The extraordinary deals had all the hallmarks of the premier’s personal style. They were transacted in secret, including one visit by Goldcorp’s head to Burke’s home to collect an envelope stuffed with cash.106 Burke had also been secretly raiding the Leader’s Accounts to buy stamps, which he later said was an investment for the Labor Party. The complexities of Burke’s secret behaviour are difficult to explain. Did he just love the intrigue of a clandestine world he could enter, or was he trying to hide his activities? Later a small army of investigators would try to solve these questions. The Royal Commission found that Burke had used the $100 000 donation from Goldberg, which he had placed in his safe, ‘with the specific intention of using those funds, or a substantial portion of them, for the purchase of stamps for his own collection’.107 But this finding, which became the subject of legal battles, would take a further three years to resolve. In the meantime, the arrival of funds into the accounts came to a shuddering halt on 20 October 1987 when the Australian stock market fell, following the meltdown on Wall Street. With one-quarter of the market’s share value wiped out, the impact was akin to a financial tidal 126

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wave. By the end of that day insiders feared the financial panic would spill out to a run on the banks. The most vulnerable bank in the nation was Rothwells. Within days, finance journalist at the West Australian Tim Treadgold was told one evening that there was a ‘run’ on Rothwells. He immediately went down to Connell’s offices and saw around fifty people clamouring at the door wanting to withdraw their money. Included in the crowd were ‘several stockbrokers in a cold sweat trying to get their client’s money out’. Connell had shut the bank’s doors and was refusing to talk to the media. Some days before the full details of the government’s involvement in the rescue of Rothwells was known, Burke had a nasty scare about whether he could keep a lid on the unfolding story. Late to an official function, he found himself sitting next to Tim Treadgold. Chiding the premier for being late, Treadgold light-heartedly asked Burke: ‘Where have you been, Brian? Organising the rescue of Rothwells?’ The look on Burke’s face was that of someone being caught in car headlights at midnight. Only now can Treadgold reflect that behind the premier’s stunned look was a fear that the journalist knew more than Burke suspected he could have known.108 Just when Burke realised the extent of the trouble Rothwells would cause him is unclear. But he had a tense meeting with Connell in the days after the stock market collapse. Burke ripped into his chief financial adviser, reducing him to tears. ‘You’re a mug liar, Laurie,’ the premier fumed. ‘You were an accident waiting to happen.’109 Burke was right, but he had no idea at this stage just how big a crash the high-flyer was in for; Laurie Connell was set to become one of Australia’s most vilified merchant bankers.

The attempted rescue of Rothwells was a saga in itself—a morality tale of the 1980s. The ties that bound the key players together finally unravelled in the anguished attempt to keep Connell afloat and stave off any further damage to Western Australia’s financial reputation. Burke, Connell and Bond each scrambled to find a lifeboat and, in the process, 127

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trust and loyalty were thrown overboard. WA Inc had always been less a set of interpersonal relationships and more a network of mutual selfinterest. Panic fractured the network. All this human drama was painstakingly played out—away from the glare of the public’s eye—in the last months of Burke’s premiership. The detailed events have been well recorded elsewhere.110 A brief account is all that is needed here. When studying Brian Burke, the important issue about Rothwells is what it revealed about his personality and style. Two days after the crash, when Connell realised he was in deep trouble, he made a number of phone calls to try to organise a rescue including to Peter Beckwith, the managing director of Bond Corporation, Nobby Clark of the National Australia Bank (NAB), which had dishonoured over $40 million in Rothwells’ cheques, and Burke. Connell’s immediate future looked bleak when the NAB declined to increase its exposure to Rothwells. A rescue from corporate Australia was the only other option. Bond flew in from Rome to coordinate the effort and, on the weekend after the crash, Bond, Beckwith, Connell and a few other mates conducted a telethon of corporate Australia. Working around the clock, calls were made and commitments written on a large whiteboard. Businessmen ‘from all around Australia kicked the can to help save Laurie’.111 Donors included Bond himself, Larry Adler, Dick Pratt and even Bond’s arch enemy, Robert Holmes à Court, who pledged $50 million. Total pledges for an amazing $135 million were made. The glue that stuck the deal together was Burke’s promise to provide up to $150 million in guarantees to the NAB against the donations raised. Offering a government guarantee to help save Rothwells also had a parallel for Burke in the career of Huey Long. In February 1932, in the midst of the Great Depression, Long received news that one of Louisiana’s banks faced a run on its deposits that might force it to liquidate. He went straight to the bank and faced irate customers anxiously waiting to withdraw their money. When one customer demanded the bank make good on his $18 000 deposit, Huey pulled out a cheque which he had had specially drawn up for $265 000 on behalf of the State 128

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of Louisiana and which he promised to deposit on the spot. He told the assembled crowd that if they kept their money in the bank, he would leave the state’s money in as well. In this way, he explained, ‘nobody’ll get hurt’.112 It was a masterstroke of political gamesmanship, a confidence booster of the state’s banking system which meant that Louisiana suffered far fewer bank collapses than the country as a whole. Burke must have been impressed with Huey’s decisiveness because he, too, did not bother much with protocol in arranging the government guarantee for Rothwells. Initially, Burke tried to tie the Opposition into the arrangement by saying it would not go ahead without bipartisan support. But his dealings with Opposition leader Barry MacKinnon were purely perfunctory. He wanted MacKinnon’s support on the spot, confirmed over the phone and without first submitting a proposal in writing. MacKinnon, who was an accountant by background, could not agree with the proposition that taxpayers’ money should be used to prop up a failing bank and his position was confirmed on hearing the absence of proper process behind Burke’s proposal. Consequently, MacKinnon declined to support the guarantee but Burke went ahead with it anyway. The following day MacKinnon received a phone call from Alan Bond who, according to MacKinnon, threatened to have him removed as leader.113 The rescue turned out to be the blind leading the blind. The NAB agreed to join because it had a government guarantee and Burke was confident in offering the guarantee, in part because of the size of the donations promised by corporate Australia. Amid the exuberance, noone had bothered to check Connell’s books. They were subsequently found to be cooked: his 1987 accounts, released only two months earlier, showed a profit instead of substantial losses and liabilities.114 Laurie had pulled his biggest con. Rothwells was somewhere between $500 and $700 million in the red. Terry Burke had over $100 000 deposited in the bank at the time, although it is claimed that Brian had no knowledge of this when the rescue was being put together. The size of the government’s exposure only escalated Burke’s basic problem: he had tied himself politically to Connell. If Connell fell, so 129

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would his own political reputation and his model of crony capitalism which had funded his amazing run in government. But the relationship had never been just the result of a political calculation. Burke’s character was stamped on every aspect of the Rothwells’ rescue: his instinctive risk-taking nature, his love of intrigue and his boundless confidence in his own abilities. Burke knew that Connell took on risky deals and that there were questions about the profits generated by Rothwells. He was certainly ‘worried and apprehensive’ in early discussions he had about the bank’s problems.115 Yet he rushed into the guarantee without proper assessment of the bank’s position. The Royal Commissioners wrote that the situation facing Burke on the weekend of the rescue called for independent advice: Mr Burke said there was insufficient time to obtain such advice. Yet there was time to send Mr Lloyd into Rothwells. We have no doubt that it would have been possible to arrange for an independent accountant to undertake the task carried out by Mr Lloyd, or to at least assist him. Mr Lloyd, of course, had no accounting qualifications.116 After Burke had sent close adviser Tony Lloyd to Rothwells, and despite Lloyd warning it would be inadvisable to put government funds into the rescue, Burke instructed the Government Employees Superannuation Board and the State Government Insurance Office to sink an initial $30 million into the rescue, and later offered the $150 million guarantee. He was acting virtually alone. Burke maintained that he had little choice but to help rescue the bank because of the exposure of charities, including the Slow Learning Children’s Group and the Catholic Church, to its collapse. Together these two investors might have lost $100 million. Burke would stoutly maintain that it was his responsibility to protect the interests of these community groups. While Burke may have felt a sense of responsibility towards these 130

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groups, political considerations were also likely to have been at work in the way he set about protecting them. Kim Beazley recalls a revealing conversation in which he challenged Burke as to why he did not just let Rothwells fall while simultaneously bailing out the charities and the Church. Burke said he thought this would appear too self-interested; a Catholic himself, it would be hard for him to justify granting government funds to bail out the Church and his family’s association through Frankie Burke with the Slow Learning Children’s Group would similarly compromise him. However, the Royal Commission was unconvinced that there were special considerations on Burke’s part. It established that little action had been taken by him to establish the full extent of the losses of the bank before committing to its rescue. In fact he ignored Tony Lloyd’s warnings against committing government funds for this very reason, and he ignored his own stipulation that the guarantee should not go ahead without Opposition support. As the Royal Commission later found, Burke’s belief that the public interest would be served by the government’s involvement was not his sole motivation. In other words, Burke took the risk for political reasons, not just in the public interest. In taking this decision, he displayed the same duplicity towards his Cabinet colleagues as he had on the WA Inc deals. He failed even to consult his deputy, Mal Bryce. On the Monday after the weekend rescue bid, a Cabinet meeting was called at which Burke announced the package. But it was a mere formality; he had already given the guarantee to the NAB to indemnify the $150 million loan to Rothwells. Burke later told Caucus the guarantee was safe because Rothwells’ accounts were sound, it had just been a short-term liquidity problem. Burke’s recklessness did not end there, however. As part of the deal, he had insisted that Connell place all his private assets—then thought to be worth about $70 million—into the rescue. But he did not bother to get a written guarantee from Connell. Connell pulled yet another swift move and failed to deliver on the undertaking. Burke later said he ‘trusted Mr Connell’s bona fides’.117 131

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Manipulating trusted loyalists had for years been part of Burke’s style. He relied on this ability to steer through the rocky shoals of the Rothwells’ rescue. Burke’s treatment of Tony Lloyd is indicative of his approach to loyalists. Despite Lloyd’s opposition to the rescue and his stated alarm at the lack of information about the bank’s books, Burke sent him off to be a director of Rothwells at the very time it was sinking. Lloyd was reluctant to go and only did so ‘as a result of Mr Burke’s persuasion’. As the Royal Commission later found: ‘The impression we have of Mr Lloyd is that in October 1987 he was a cautious and prudent public servant. He would have had no reason to extend assistance to Rothwells unless he had been requested to do so.’ Lloyd was set up by Burke to take the biggest risk of his career. As the Royal Commission later found: ‘Mr Lloyd’s primary qualification for that appointment was his loyalty to Mr Burke, who knew that Mr Lloyd could be relied upon to protect his and the Government’s interests with the utmost diligence.’ When ensconced at Rothwells, Lloyd kept in contact with Burke and from the tenor of their conversations it was clear that Burke knew the situation at the bank was perilous, if not catastrophic. He would ring Lloyd and ask, ‘What’s happening down there?’ to which Lloyd would reply: ‘It’s an absolute nightmare . . . [the bank] had made loans without writing down the names of the people to whom they’d lent money . . . people have come in to apply for a loan and they have been given cash without signing anything for the money they have been given . . . we seem to find a new nightmare under every log that we roll over.’118 For his loyalty, Lloyd became embroiled in the mire of the ongoing demise of Rothwells and eventually was charged with various corporate offences, briefly jailed and later fined. Burke’s mastery at manipulating the press was also on display during the Rothwells’ rescue. The West Australian came under some criticism in other media quarters for its lack of robust reporting on the bank’s troubles. Much of this criticism centres on the newspaper’s failure to report the initial run on Rothwells, clearly one of the biggest stories in recent years. Tim Treadgold was told by management that advice from 132

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the company’s lawyers claimed the paper ‘couldn’t write a story that there was a run on Rothwells because that might cause one’. Incredulous at this response, Treadgold tried several ways to massage the story past the lawyers, but to no avail. In frustration, he placed the story on a fax machine and sent it to a Fairfax newspaper in Sydney, which duly published it.119 Burke’s role in this attempt at censorship remains shadowy. At the time the West Australian was owned by Robert Holmes à Court’s Bell Group and he was a major donor to the rescue bid. According to later revelations in the Royal Commission, Burke rang an executive of Bell Resources informing him of the story and requesting it be pulled. The executive told Burke it was not the company’s policy to interfere in editorial decisions but, unbeknown to the executive, the decision had already been taken not to publish the article.120 It is not clear whether Burke had already contacted Holmes à Court. The fact remains he was actively lobbying to kill the story. Thereafter the West Australian attracted a growing number of critics for its lack of investigative reporting on WA Inc. Whether this resulted from political interference, lack of business experience among the paper’s political reporters or a risk-averse culture has never been adequately examined. But Burke was given an easier time over the Rothwells debacle than he might otherwise have had if the state’s premier newspaper had been more vigorous in reporting the bank’s financial troubles. Nevertheless Burke gravely overestimated his skill in the high-stakes world of corporate finance. Riding high during the early years of WA Inc, Burke no doubt convinced himself he had the measure of the cabal of Perth’s entrepreneurs, the proof being the millions raised for election funding. But behind their bravado, Connell and Bond had Burke’s measure. They knew how to extract the best deal for themselves. As Tim Treadgold observed, ‘Burke never really understood the cleverness of the people he was dealing with.’121 The Rothwells rescue highlighted this weakness. He also might not have understood the degree to which he identified with them. Burke might still have lived in Balga but his years 133

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of mixing with the multimillionaires had wrought changes to his private, though not his public, style. The changes were subtle but recognisable to insiders: the suits became more numerous and more expensive and his reading changed from news to business magazines. Slowly, but perceptibly, his close colleagues noticed that he had ‘been seduced by the Big End of town’. Burke was outmanoeuvred—outfoxed is probably the more accurate term—by both Connell and Bond. Connell reneged on his agreement to place all his remaining assets into the rescue and Bond managed to negotiate the extraordinary arrangement that he would get back $16 million of his $17 million contribution as a management fee for arranging the rescue. This was a private arrangement between Connell and Bond, but Burke had known for years that private fees were the standard operating style of both men. When later asked whether Bond had given him any details to justify the $16-million fee, Connell blushingly replied, ‘No . . . he’s not that sort of bloke.’122 Of course none of these details were public at the time Burke retired from parliament in February 1988. Only later when his successor, Peter Dowding, was dragged further into the financial sink well that was Rothwells were they revealed. To all intents and purposes, the October rescue successfully stopped Rothwells haemorrhaging and Burke successfully media-managed his role as the reluctant guardian of the public interest. With an eye to history, he recounted the events to his biographer, John Hamilton. In Hamilton’s reliable hands, Burke’s role was little short of heroic; he described a premier, clad in grey tracksuit pants, phoning the likes of Robert Holmes à Court sitting ‘on an old couch in the working class suburb of Balga’ worrying about the deposits held in Rothwells by charities.123 The decision was tough, taxpayers’ money was at risk, but there was no expectation that the government’s guarantee would have to be paid out. That Rothwells could be propped up was the only conclusion readers could have reached through this adulatory account of events. In fact advertisements run by Rothwells in November 1987 brazenly, and dishonestly as it turned out, announced that the bank was stronger than 134

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ever. However, Terry Burke is alleged to have pulled his money out of Rothwells ‘even though the Government was telling the community that the Government guarantee would fully protect any Rothwells depositors’.124 Brian later told the Royal Commission that he did not believe his brother had been aware of the deposits in Rothwells because they had been placed there by Terry’s accountants. It is worth speculating how much of the timing of Burke’s departure from office was governed by his knowledge of how badly tarnished he might end up if he had stayed. Several weeks before resigning on 25 February 1988, after five commanding years as premier, Brian Burke instructed a small coterie of his private staff to clandestinely remove material from hundreds of departmental files and destroy them. It was a mammoth undertaking. Conducted after hours and on weekends, the premier’s instructions were clear: all documents in his handwriting were to be removed and destroyed. Two files on the casino had pages torn out.125 The task also involved obscuring remarks written by Burke on documents, which were then photocopied and the originals destroyed. Also targeted for destruction were yellow stickers with handwritten Burke one-liners such as ‘This guy doesn’t deserve this’, ‘I don’t think this is on’ and ‘I don’t think this guy is up to scratch’. As the days ticked down towards his impending resignation, these raiders of the records felt a greater sense of urgency. Pages from some files were torn roughly from their bindings. At times Burke and his personal private secretary, Brenda Brush, took part in these file-stripping exercises.126 Burke was clearly looking for an exit strategy. He was pushing Bob Hawke for the ambassadorship to Ireland and the Holy See. But how much he knew about the further collapse of Rothwells, and whether this influenced a desire to be out of the country, is unclear. He certainly handed his annointed successor, Peter Dowding, a poisoned chalice which effectively ended Dowding’s career in politics. Only when the details of the rescue were revealed in the first inquiry into Rothwells, undertaken in 1990, and during the subsequent Royal Commission did Burke’s role come fully to light. By then he had worked on his own 135

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explanation for his downfall: ‘my association with Mr Connell has destroyed my reputation and has ruined my career’.127 Burke had found his scapegoat. None of this was apparent when he departed from office. In fact Burke was being openly courted to enter federal politics. A ‘secret’ plan was leaked to the press claiming that Bob Hawke was behind a longterm strategy to convince a reluctant Burke to switch to Canberra after completing his stint as ambassador to Ireland. A ‘senior source’ said: ‘We know Burke isn’t too keen on politics at the moment. But he has been one of the most spectacular Labor leaders of our time and is at a young enough age to become a federal Labor Prime Minister. We’re working on it.’128 In one of his final acts as premier, Burke allegedly persuaded an independent tribunal to introduce changes that would dramatically increase his payout. Initially rejected by the tribunal but later accepted, the changes are estimated to have increased his payout by $90 000, bringing his total payout to $690 000.129 He even had the temerity to report to a packed farewell on his last day that ‘nobody had got a free lunch out of his government’.130

Brian Burke was given a farewell usually reserved for royalty. The Legislative Assembly was full to brimming with members from both houses and with parliamentary staff, Hansard reporters and security personnel who had deserted their posts to listen to the premier’s valedictory. Resigning at the same time was deputy premier Mal Bryce, whose farewell speech was received enthusiastically in recognition of his considerable achievements. When Burke rose to speak, complete silence descended the chamber. He concluded his short address by making the bold assertion that ‘Western Australia is being governed as well as it has since Statehood’,131 after which thunderous applause broke out. In the weeks after he left office, Burke kept a watchful eye over how Dowding performed in the job. He was particularly concerned to ensure 136

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that Connell continued to have access to the government. Burke rang his former adviser suggesting that ‘he [Connell] had to get alongside Dowding and get to understand him’.132 At the same time, Burke was ‘obsessed’ with having his time as premier permanently recorded.133 He approached at least one prominent journalist, who turned him down, and the task was given to the West Australian associate editor, John Hamilton. His published account, Burkie, captures the heroic, if enigmatic, image that Burke himself had long portrayed. In fact, the biography reads as ‘a eulogy’ to Burke. It has been alleged since its publication that Laurie Connell paid $60 000 (another figure claimed was $67 000) to have the work written.134 With his legacy squared away and with the firm promise from the Hawke government of a place in federal politics when he returned from Ireland, Burke exited politics and headed for Dublin. He had a bit more than the proverbial luck of the Irish when he managed to persuade the federal government to pay him $45 000 more than the retiring ambassador.135

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CHAPTER 6 THE RISE AND FALL OF AN AMBASSADOR

DUBLIN WAS NOT THE MOST PLUM diplomatic posting for a former Australian politician able to trade on Canberra connections.1 However, for a man like Burke with a proud Irish background it had the attraction of bringing him back to his roots and offering a richly appealing historical, cultural and aesthetic environment in which to operate. Burke professed ‘a deep affinity for Ireland’,2 especially having just assembled materials for his biographer on his family’s tale of migration from Ireland to Australia. The timing was also appealing. He commenced his posting during Australia’s bicentenary with the opportunities it presented for further strengthening the historically strong ties between the two nations. But Ireland would become a disaster for Burke. He would not only become caught up in the ever-tightening web of WA Inc, but he would court further trouble of his own making. If WA Inc had left doubts about his character and judgement, his stint in Ireland fuelled a growing perception that he was a shady operator. Just as he had during his premiership, Burke spent his time as ambassador to Ireland living parallel lives. When they arrived in mid August 1988 the Burkes moved into the ambassadorial residence in the exclusive Dublin suburb of Killiney. The 138

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luxurious detached Victorian house, set in daffodil-strewn parkland, overlooked Dublin Bay and its spacious grounds provided privacy and security for the family. The oldest of the Burke children was planning to study at Trinity College, founded in 1591 and located in the heart of bustling Dublin. Burke was looking forward to the challenges of his posting. He expected his work to focus on expanding cultural and educational exchanges and trade. He also expected the posting to ‘fully occupy him’,3 although Burke did not distance himself from all his old colleagues. He issued an open invitation for them to stay at the mansion in the same spirit of generosity shown by his hero, Huey Long, when he finally made it to the Louisiana governor’s mansion. The first month was a busy round of official duties. Brian and Sue hosted ten dinner parties and undertook a three-day visit to County Kerry and County Tipperary, where Sue met some cousins for the first time. Burke was also an official guest at the All-Ireland Gaelic football final, which drew a parochial response from him: ‘I do not believe the game is as exciting as Australian Rules.’ He made wide-ranging contacts in the business community and also had the opportunity to fulfil an ambition to attend a concert of his favourite group, The Fureys, in their native city of Dublin.4 Burke relished the status of ambassador, happy to appear in tails and top hat on formal occasions. But there were reminders of his old operating style. He still liked to draw people into his confidence and foster their loyalty. His driver Paddy Dowling was an early convert; he was convinced that Burke could have gone to the top of Australian politics. The Western Australian media kept watch on how Burke settled into his role. In fact he invited selected journalists to visit him in Ireland to maintain his profile back home. Interviewed at the end of 1988 after he had been in Dublin for a little over three months, Burke was in a reflective mood. He saw his strength as premier as ‘being able to convince people I need them’. Asked about his plans after completing his term in Ireland, Burke offered the ironical thought that he would ‘be interested in helping a charity such as the Slow Learning Children’s Group . . . It 139

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certainly won’t be a job in the limelight and money won’t be a paramount consideration’.5 However, political events back in Western Australia were turning increasingly sour. Burke’s successor, Peter Dowding, a debonair and charismatic lawyer and one-time activist for Aboriginal rights, was himself beginning to sink into the quagmire of WA Inc. With Rothwells continuing to haemorrhage, he decided to revive a deal already announced by the Burke government early the previous year to build a petrochemical plant in the state. Petrochemical Industries Co Ltd (PICL), jointly owned by Dallas Dempster and Laurie Connell, had been given an exclusive licence from the Burke government to undertake a feasibility study of the project. However, it went nowhere over the next twelve months because of the inability of the pair to attract a financial backer. Then in early 1988 Connell came up with the idea of selling PICL to the government and enlisting Bond as the government’s partner to build and operate the plant. The price tag of $400 million equated approximately to the ongoing bad debts in Rothwells. Under the arrangement, at least $350 million was supposed to go straight into Rothwells in another desperate attempt to shore it up. Ostensibly PICL was to have delivered the state’s second biggest industrial venture at an estimated cost of $1.2 billion to build. But it was a dud deal from the start. The only assets owned by PICL were a block of land along Perth’s southern industrial fringe and the governmentissued right to build the plant. In effect, the government had bought not much more than a concept and shelled out up to 100 times its tangible assets.6 The deal smacked of crony capitalism. It was a desperate move by a government seeking a political fix. As Paul Barry has written, not only was the government forking out several hundred millions for something it had already given away to Connell, it made further financial guarantees to Bond Corporation to ensure that the petrochemical plant would be profitable: ‘The government has therefore exchanged one embarrassing liability for another.’7 By late 1998 Rothwells had fallen over, PICL was about to collapse and there was no escape route for the government on its WA Inc past. 140

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From his mansion in Dublin, Burke had been keeping close tabs on these events. He had made two trips back to Perth in 1989, both for several weeks at a time. Burke blamed Dowding for getting into the PICL mess but, equally, Dowding had good reason to feel that Burke had handed him a leaking ship. Screaming matches amongst senior ministers increasingly aghast at the bungling of the deal further fractured the government. Burke was keenly aware of the darkening clouds starting to engulf him. On his return to Ireland, Burke kept continually in touch with political events in Australia. Always a ‘phone junkie’, he incurred massive bills while ambassador. He even installed a second phone and fax in the Dublin residence without the knowledge of the embassy’s chargé d’affaires.8 Throughout 1990 Burke averaged seventy-three international phone calls a month, nearly all back to Perth. In July 1991 the Sunday Times obtained a log of Burke’s calls to Australia under freedom of information legislation and showed how they coincided with major political developments. Burke was also in the habit of making international calls from the diplomatic car phone. His addiction to the telephone came to Canberra’s attention and the Department of Foreign Affairs placed a bar on international calls from the car. In all, Burke’s phone bills for the Dublin chancery rose from $32 479 to $66 274 in the nine months from June 1989 to March 1991. By comparison, the phone bills for the Madrid and Cophenhagen embassies were $19 706 and $36 970 respectively.9 When publicly exposed the following year, Burke’s astronomical phone bill became yet another source of public disgrace for him and he was required to pay $14 000 to the department for private calls.10 It was not surprising that Burke had such an intense interest in keeping abreast of events. From the time he went to Ireland until the announcement of the Royal Commission two years later, the credibility of his years as premier were slowly being put to the torch. Alarming disclosures followed one after the other until the odours emanating from WA Inc deals became a full-blown stench. Disquiet gave way to disbelief as many of the pieces of the WA Inc puzzle began to fit into place. 141

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Public interest was heightened by the way in which these events were connected to a larger story about the 1980s: the heroic status given to entrepreneurs, the lax corporate regulations governing their activities, and the lack of government accountability and transparency. The greed, expediency, self-interest and secrecy that had been the hallmarks of sections of corporate Australia were revealed as never before. Tycoons standing on the precipice of collapsing business empires vied with each other for media attention, the names of their companies once iconic brands: Tricontinental, Quintex, Pyramid Building Society, Elders, Estate Mortgage. But nowhere had this group been given such advantages as in Western Australia. While Burke was making frantic phone calls from Ireland, the unravelling of his years in power became quite surreal. One journalist thought the events defied imagination and offered the following observation: ‘If the writers of Dallas or Dynasty were to churn out scripts along the lines of WA Inc’s goings-on since 1983, the producers would send them back to their word processors to produce story lines that were a bit more believable.’11 Others saw more sinister forces at work. Columnist for the Australian Frank Devine likened WA Inc to Watergate: ‘As with Watergate, the WA Inc affair will engulf and mangle everybody who touches it.’12 Resorting to the melodramatic to describe the unfolding events was totally reasonable. Even with the massive injection of funds, Rothwells continued to haemorrhage. The government’s guarantee of $150 million was ever closer to being swallowed up, placing enormous pressure on Dowding. A sword of Damocles was hanging over his government: if the guarantee was called in, Dowding would likely be blamed and the full horror of WA Inc would be hard to hide. Not surprisingly, then, Dowding flew into a rage at one late night meeting when told that still more money was needed to prop up the bank. Recalling this meeting later to the Royal Commission, former Rothwells director John Hamilton said that Dowding was kicking the furniture and shouting at the top of his voice when he blurted out: ‘. . . and who are we trying to keep out of jail 142

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now’.13 The outburst proved to be a turning point for Dowding. From that moment, he drew a line in the sand—there would be no more money for Rothwells. In all, it was estimated that $700 million had been pumped into Rothwells in the thirteen months between the first rescue and its final collapse in November 1988.14 Revealing yet again its naivety in dealing with Bond, the government came to believe that ‘it was screwed by Bond Corporation during the frantic negotiations to bed down the deal’.15 The wrangling over responsibilities and financing to get the project built ended up in court, with Bond suing the state government for over $200 million. Signifying a final fracturing in the relationship between Bond and the state Labor government was the allegation made in parliament by Premier Dowding that Bond ‘threatened to bring down the government during the negotiations on the stalled petrochemical deal’.16 The allegation was supported by high-profile corporate lawyer Malcolm Turnbull, who was then acting for the State Government Insurance Office. He said that Bond had told him of his plans to look closely at his options (presumably through his connections with the Liberal-controlled upper house) to block supply to the government.17 Bad publicity surrounded the liquidators’ attempts to salvage the wreckage of Rothwells. They cautioned that the exercise was turning into the most protracted of its kind in Australian history. But one thing was already clear: ‘The ‘‘big boys’’ had walked away with most of the money and left the ‘‘little guys’’ in the lurch.’18 The reputations of key players involved in the rescue were in free fall. The National Companies and Securities Commission (NCSC) was looking at the syphoning of $1.2 billion out of Bell Resources by Alan Bond who was facing a character test on his fitness to hold a television licence. His credit rating had been downgraded and his company’s share price was under pressure. Bond’s much-vaunted business empire was on a slippery slope to liquidation and the one-time hero of the America’s Cup was increasingly being depicted as a duplicitous character. As respected business journalist Alan Kohler wrote, Bond ‘has always regarded himself as a Great 143

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Australian—despite not paying much, if any tax—and has revelled in the public attention and any adulation he has been able to muster’.19 By 1989 Bond’s demise was being widely speculated on, but not before his senior executive, Peter Beckwith, quipped, ‘If Alan Bond were dead, he’d have phoned me.’20 Others in the WA Inc saga were also being tarnished. Dallas Dempster had become embroiled in a shareholders’ backlash for his part in the PICL deal.21 Tony Lloyd had been arrested and put on trial for misusing his position as a director of Rothwells. At the summing up of his defence his lawyer, Geoffrey Miller QC, who ironically would later defend Burke, made a desperate plea to the jury that it was not up to his client ‘to carry the can for politicians who made the decisions’.22 As for Connell, he had literally been stopped in his tracks by the NCSC which had begun an inquiry into the collapse of Rothwells. Detained while boarding a flight to London and barred from leaving the country, Connell had become a prisoner in the very city where he once flaunted his wealth. Connell’s mismanagement of Rothwells was shaping up as a test case for the credibility of corporate regulation in Australia. There had been emerging public disquiet over the deals the NCSC was doing with dodgy companies to limit the number of prosecutions.23 However, its ‘seat of the pants’ approach would not spare Connell. When the Royal Commission’s report on Rothwells was released in August 1990, it confirmed everybody’s worst fears: Connell had concealed $500 million in personal loans, Burke had failed to fully assess the company’s financial position, and those participating in the rescue had been duped.

Observing the unravelling of the Labor government’s business dealings was lawyer Bevan Lawrence, older brother of then state education minister Carmen Lawrence. For years he had harboured suspicions about the character of the Burke government that were not due to his own loose affiliations with the Liberal Party. Bevan Lawrence had known both Laurie Connell and Jack Walsh for years. He and Connell had played 144

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A-grade hockey together in their twenties. Lawrence knew Connell’s brash, erratic and over-enthusiastic personality, and he had seen Connell rise up the business ladder from nowhere to having a presence almost everywhere. He knew the Connell who cut corners and knew few rules or boundaries. He also knew that Connell had become friends with Jack Walsh in the late 1970s. Lawrence could recall the unease he felt when he learned Burke and Connell had become close and how his doubts about the integrity of Burke’s government hardened into real concerns when Connell started bragging down at the hockey club about his influence, telling his team-mates that ‘Brian Burke does what Laurie Connell wants’. Even though this could be taken as typical Connell hubris, Lawrence could not imagine that a government with Connell and Walsh at its heart was in the community’s best interest. He started making a scrapbook of the titbits of information Connell passed on to him and the publicly available information on the government’s business activities. At this stage Lawrence had no thought of being dragged into the politics of WA Inc but, by the end of 1988, when he saw that the Liberal party was making little headway in bringing the government to account over the inept PICL deal, he decided he had to get involved rather than watch the state sink further into the financial and political mire.24 In mid 1989 Lawrence formed People for Fair and Open Government, the sole aim of which was to build public support to press the Labor government into holding a royal commission into its business dealings. As Lawrence explained, the organisation came into existence because of the belief of those involved that there had been a significant cover-up of WA Inc deals, especially the PICL deal. When it started to gain notice a few months later, Lawrence was depicted as an unlikely crusader.25 His ‘mild demeanour’ and ‘warm smile’ belied both his professional background as a lawyer investigating insurance fraud and his high profile as a political activist involved in opposing the federal Labor government’s controversial proposal for a national identity card—the Australia Card—and its equally contested plan for a referendum on a Bill of Rights. Importantly, he had a determined streak which bordered 145

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on the obsessive. A potentially formidable opponent, Lawrence was once described as a ‘litigious Clint Eastwood’.26 The genesis of the organisation he formed, and which played an important role in bringing Burke to face a royal commission, began with an advertisement published in January 1989 during the state election. Lawrence’s advertisement appeared as an article criticising the Dowding government for the disastrous PICL deal. While having no immediate impact on the election result, the advertisement sowed the seeds of the public support to follow by explicitly drawing out the political dimensions of its deal and the implications for taxpayers. Publishing the advertisement was a brave move because of the threat of litigation. It went through sixteen drafts and was pored over by numerous lawyers. ‘It was a nightmare, it took me months,’ Lawrence recalls. With backing from the West Australian, the state Labor government under Dowding’s leadership was returned. Lawrence then called a meeting of supporters. About 180 people turned up, mainly Liberal voters, although most were not politically active. Fending off early accusations that it was merely a front for the Liberal Party, the group collected donations and formed a core of volunteers. This core group devised a strategy to give the new organisation momentum. It was centred around three elements: taking out further paid advertisements, holding public rallies, and briefing the press. However, from the very start, Lawrence and his supporters, who included University of Western Australia academic ‘Paddy’ O’Brien, knew the reality of the task facing them. If they were going to convince the broader public of the need for an official inquiry, it was not sufficient to expose political impropriety. They had to obtain evidence that at least some members of the government were being dishonest and deriving personal gain. ‘We went actively looking for that information,’ Lawrence recalls.27 Obtaining information about alleged corruption proved to be relatively easy, but verifying it was much more difficult. Lawrence’s office became a contact point for people with allegations to make, most of whom were ordinary citizens, secretaries and clerks who had worked in 146

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the businesses and government agencies at the heart of the deal-making. They claimed to have seen signatures on cheques or knew of cash payments made to some of the key players. Very little information came directly from the business community. In one intriguing allegation, a large amount of money was said to have been taken out of the country illegally by one or more of the central WA Inc players. The cause of some public speculation, it was later revealed by Martin Saxon in the Sunday Times that four prominent Western Australians had been linked to millions of WA Inc money missing overseas.28 The paper knew the names but could not publish them for legal reasons. Another rumour circulating was that Burke himself had arranged the dispatch of money via his use of a protected diplomatic bag. A fax was later sent to the Royal Commission detailing the allegation. However, the foreign minister, Senator Gareth Evans, claimed in federal parliament that the source of the allegation was a disgruntled Foreign Affairs employee who had, nonetheless, carried consignments of diplomatic bags including one for Dublin. Evans later told federal parliament that the departmental records ‘completely account for the contents of the bag in question and, manifestly, give no credence to the allegation’.29 Lawrence found he was in a cloak and dagger game himself: he did not believe that he could trust the police to check the information coming in because of his concerns that sections of the Western Australian police force had been politicised under Burke. Lawrence also realised that in his efforts to verify allegations he faced the problem that he could not then make forthright public comments for fear of being sued. He had to engage his opponents through the media but not incite them. Early on Lawrence received one vital break when he was approached by a ‘deep throat’—someone who wished to remain anonymous but who appeared to have impeccable business connections. The information this person passed on to Lawrence proved to be unerringly accurate about the deal-making processes. Paranoid about being bugged, he would only talk to Lawrence while walking around car parks, insisting that no notes be 147

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taken. Lawrence had to recall every detail, writing them up when he went back to the office. He kept detailed notes and a diary of all his activities. He followed up each of the allegations, talking directly to the people who had made them. Lawrence later passed on all the information he collected to the Royal Commission, but what did his store of information actually amount to? Did he have a smoking gun that proved there was corruption at the heart of government? Today, his assessment is necessarily circumspect: ‘There were very serious, partially verifiable allegations of corruption among senior players involved in WA Inc. I have no doubt in my mind that some of these key players were deriving personal benefits out of being in, or close to, government. However, whether these could have been proved to the standards of criminal or civil law is another issue.’30 Of course the man whose government had been at the centre of this unfolding and unedifying drama was away but not out of touch. Brian Burke must have sensed that he, too, would soon be embroiled in this public flagellation of those involved in WA Inc. How worried Burke was about the looming threats posed by the exposure of WA Inc activities is hard to gauge. The constant phone calls would have kept him fully aware of developments. And despite his distance, he still managed to maintain his extensive network. In 1990 he self-published and distributed to old contacts a book of his poetry titled Of Love and Not Much Else. Sentimental, maudlin and despairing, it may not have reached great literary heights, but Burke was clearly proud of his efforts. If its content reveals anything of Brian it would be the strength of his commitment to wife Sue, from whom many of the poems appear to have derived their inspiration, and his barely contained torment about the prospect of this love being denied. Burke also continued to operate and control Labor Party election funds. When this came to the attention of the foreign minister Gareth Evans, Burke received a stern rebuke from him and also from prime minister Bob Hawke.31 If this activity raised alarm bells over Burke’s suitability to fulfil the ambassadorial role, then his involvement in a car148

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trading scheme must have confirmed the inappropriateness of his choice as ambassador. Yet in spite of the serious allegation that he abused his diplomatic entitlements for personal gain by trading in duty-free cars, the federal government was very slow to remove a ‘mate’ and may not have done so at all without the added imperative of the WA Inc scandal which broke around Burke at much the same time. Within weeks of arriving in Dublin, the Burkes bought two duty-free cars for private family use. This was within strictly enforced Department of Foreign Affairs guidelines which stipulated that only two vehicles could be purchased during a posting. What Burke understood about these guidelines became clouded in later contradictory statements he made about the matter. One thing is clear, Burke bought another four duty-free vehicles, including three Mercedes-Benz. According to journalist Martin Saxon, who investigated these activities, he stood to make a profit of $140 000 from the scheme. (Burke eventually paid the duty on three of the cars.) The purchase of vehicles was undertaken without the knowledge of the embassy’s senior administrative officer, who later testified that, ‘These transactions were carried out by Mr Burke and two locallyengaged staff who had been requested by Mr Burke to tell no-one of the transaction.’32 An officer in the Dublin embassy phoned the Foreign Affairs Department concerned that Burke was seeking to dispose of duty-free vehicles in excess of his entitlements.33 So concerned was the department that a senior officer was sent to investigate. Burke opposed the proposed visit, arguing that it would undermine his role as ambassador. The department gave Burke the opportunity to press his view that ‘he was entitled to own three vehicles duty-free at any one time, and that there was no particular limitation on the total number of duty-free vehicles that could be purchased during the course of a posting’.34 Burke had conveniently convinced himself he could run a business on the side while being an ambassador. Although the department accepted his professed ignorance of the rules, it also made sure he fully understood them. And there the matter rested until some months later, after he had 149

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returned from Ireland, when a scandal broke out over an alleged political cover-up of Burke’s car-trading activities. One crucial point emerged at this time. Burke claimed in a letter to the Department of Foreign Affairs ‘that he was never told there was a limit to the number of dutyfree cars he could buy and sell’.35 This scandal goes to the heart of Burke’s character. Against the backdrop of the steadily hardening calls for a royal commission into his government’s business deals, Burke once more bent (or broke, depending on how the evidence is read) established rules as a paid public official. He did so with a degree of secrecy and dissembling. And while he was never disciplined or charged with any offence regarding this matter, there are sufficient indicators that this was a continuation of the behaviour he displayed during his WA Inc days. At the very least, Burke demonstrated his willingness to take risks and push the boundaries. However, unlike his fundraising for the ALP, his purpose this time was purely self-interested. Burke was out to make a quick buck for himself. There was another dimension to Burke’s entrepreneurial activities while ambassador. This, too, he tried to keep hidden. Helping to fund his purchase of vehicles was a high-profile figure, Irish banker and businessman Des Traynor, personal accountant to the Irish prime minister, Charles Haughey. Burke later told the Royal Commission into WA Inc that Traynor was a close family friend, but it is not clear how much he knew about the Irish businessman’s activities. However, Traynor was well informed on Australian politics, having apparently been briefed by the ALP NSW Right that Burke was a potential successor to Prime Minister Bob Hawke. It was also suggested that he knew Dallas Dempster.36 Burke told the Royal Commission that Western Australian Development Corporation director John Horgan had made the introductions. Burke also told the Royal Commission that Traynor advanced him A$344 420 (195 000 Irish pounds) in loans between February 1989 and June 1991. The loans were interest free and did not come with any repayment schedule.37 Loans given under such an arrangement might be the cause of some concern for someone acting in an official government role 150

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but more so because of Traynor’s shadowy background, which remained hidden until three years after his death in 1997 when he was exposed in the course of an Irish inquiry as the bagman for Prime Minister Charles Haughey’s large-scale political donations. Haughey was the dominant Irish politician of his generation, and its most enigmatic. Described by his biographer as power hungry, charismatic, vain and self-aggrandising, Haughey had a taste for the fine things in life.38 His attempts to maintain his lavish lifestyle, which included a large estate, racehorses, an island retreat and a yacht, required more generous funding than his parliamentary salary provided. Asked once how he had funded one of his expensive projects, Haughey replied that he did not think in those terms, he just left it up to Mr Traynor to find the money.39 To meet Haughey’s unquenchable financial thirst, Traynor arranged a line of credit with some of Dublin’s elite business figures. Between 1979 and 1986 it is estimated that he was given nearly $9 million in ex gratia payments. In an eerie echo of Burke’s political career, Haughey faced an official inquiry into his financial dealings where he explained that he could see no wrong in a group of friends choosing to help particular chosen politicians ‘because they are running the country well, because they are engaged in initiatives which are beneficial to everyone, as I think I continually did’.40 Traynor, while acting as Haughey’s accountant, was himself a largescale money launderer, controlling about $80 million dollars of other people’s money in secret, coded bank accounts. These accounts, known as the Ansbacher Deposits, were located in a bank in the tax haven of the Cayman Islands and were operated by the Ansbacher Bank, which had taken over the Irish merchant bank Guinness & Mahon. Martin Saxon and Anne Burns from the West Australian separately investigated the story in 1997 at the time Traynor died. Saxon wrote that Traynor ‘operated the accounts through a bank in the Cayman Islands tax haven. Mr Traynor used a system of coded files . . . to ensure the identity of the real owners of the money was kept secret . . . In December 1989 one of the coded accounts contained 1.7 million Australian dollars’.41 151

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In her report, Anne Burns wrote that the ‘West Australian understands that money lent to Mr Burke by Mr Traynor also passed through the Cayman Islands, via a branch of the merchant bank Guinness & Mahon whose operations were taken over by Ansbacher Bank’.42 However tantalising, none of these reports established that Burke knew anything other than that Traynor handed him loans he understood to be legitimate. In fact Burke told the Royal Commission that the loans were genuine and, as reported by the commissioners, ‘not drawings of funds that, in reality, had been transmitted overseas and belonged to him’.43 He felt no need to elaborate any further on the matter. In 1997, when Traynor’s shady financial dealings surfaced publicly, Martin Saxon unsuccessfully tried to question Burke on the matter. In his story Saxon repeated Burke’s evidence to the Royal Commission but wrote: ‘Mr Burke did not want to discuss his financial relationship with Mr Traynor or the Cayman Islands’ coded accounts. Mrs Burke relayed the message: “He doesn’t speak to the press”.’44 As his extracurricular activities showed, Burke had the ability to compartmentalise different parts of his life: his official role of ambassador, his Irish business activities and his Labor networking back home.

As 1990 wore on, political changes in Western Australia ensured that Burke would not remain in Ireland much longer. At the beginning of 1990 Peter Dowding’s position as premier had become untenable. Not only had the PICL deal attracted increasingly scathing public commentary, but Bevan Lawrence’s activities were slowly helping shed light on how much had been concealed from the public. And when Dowding was replaced by Dr Carmen Lawrence, one of the more bizarre twists in Australian politics occurred. Facing off against each other were the premier and her older brother. Somehow disbelief needed to be suspended to contemplate how such a confrontation could have eventuated. In 1947 Ern and Mary Lawrence took up a war service block in the Western Australian wheatbelt and worked hard to make it into a viable 152

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property. The early days were difficult. In 1949 the family’s only transport was a horse and cart. Their daughter Carmen recalls being deeply influenced by observing her mother jointly manage the farm while raising seven children; it was a message that ‘women could do anything and should do everything’.45 Never a ‘farmy type’, Carmen was exposed to Catholic boarding school teachings about social responsibility. Bevan was directly influenced by the self-made story of his father and the connections he had to the Liberal Party. The family did share one thing in common, however, as Bevan once explained: ‘My family was terribly political and we’d argue all day long about politics, it was our fun.’46 Of the seven children, sibling rivalry was fiercest between Carmen and her older, and only, brother. ‘Bevan and Carmen could argue. They were at loggerheads—but not vicious—but they could argue the point for hours,’ Ern once explained.47 The discussions solidified into different political world views: Bevan studied law and sided with the Liberal Party and Carmen entered academia and drifted into feminism, progressive politics and the Labor Party. Untainted by the WA Inc era, Carmen Lawrence was out of the mould of Labor leaders in ways other than her gender. Intellectual, consensual and self-reliant, she was the antithesis of Burke and his leadership through patronage style. She was likely to approach the wash-up of WA Inc with a fresh perspective. Nevertheless she did not come to the leadership offering to establish an inquiry. Carmen Lawrence assumed the premiership at an especially challenging time. Not only were the revelations about WA Inc threatening to sink her government but the Liberal Opposition was rattling the sabre, threatening to use its numbers in the upper house to block supply if a full-scale inquiry was not held. In fact Bevan was trying to encourage the Liberal Party to take this course of action which threatened, in the process, to unleash a constitutional crisis about the role of upper houses for the first time since the Senate took similar action against the Whitlam government in 1975. Bevan’s organisation continued to hold periodic rallies which 153

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attracted 7000 people at their height. The media became increasingly interested in the political rivalry between the Lawrence siblings. Carmen believes that this was critical to the success of People for Fair and Open Government: ‘If he hadn’t been my brother he would have got less publicity.’ She recollects that ‘a couple of Christmases were ruined by his refusal to leave the issue alone. I think he thought he could talk me into his point of view by berating me a lot, not unjustifiably.’ Publicly, each maintained civility towards the other. Their feud was political, not personal. But Carmen knew her brother would not be giving up easily: ‘He was a dogged character. Once he got his teeth into something he would not let go.’48 The stakes were high and the two protagonists were forthright when airing their views in the media. Carmen once dismissed Bevan’s lobby group as ‘a front for the Liberal Party’,49 while Bevan maintained that his sister’s government would ‘fight tooth and nail to avoid a Royal Commission’.50 The pressures inside the parliamentary Labor Party to stave off an inquiry were immense. Even Laurie Connell had gone public to call for a royal commission. Not long after he had emerged ‘looking drawn and exhausted’ from the police lock-up, having been charged with fraud, Connell declared that he was ready to tell all to a royal commission.51 However, within the government most of the hard-heads ran the line that royal commissions were ‘star chambers’, ‘clumsy vehicles to get at the truth’, and ‘nothing good came from them’. In the premier’s own department the question would regularly be asked by senior officers whether a royal commission should be held, but the universal refrain was, ‘No, we can get through this.’ Most of those attached to the senior levels of the new Lawrence administration had not been involved in Burke’s ‘kitchen Cabinet’ decision-making or WA Inc, and so they struggled to fully grasp all that had gone wrong. But Carmen Lawrence’s view began to drift towards holding an inquiry. To be sure, the opinion polls were a factor. While showing strong support for her as leader, they were a disaster for the party. In her view, the government could not get traction on any issue 154

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because the allegations of wrongdoing were ‘chewing up all the time of the government’. As 1990 continued it was being consumed by scandal. A decision had to be made. The government could be swallowed up whether it risked an inquiry or whether it tried to ride out the storm. In the end Lawrence made the decision virtually alone, although some of her colleagues reluctantly offered last minute support. Her ultimatum to Cabinet and Caucus was blunt: either an inquiry was held or she would resign. It was Hobson’s choice because the premier was all that stood between the party and oblivion. The terms of reference were nearly the same as those her brother had handed to her in May 1990. Bevan Lawrence can justifiably claim some credit for the establishment of the landmark Royal Commission into WA Inc, although it is difficult to assess the extent of the influence wielded by People for Fair and Open Government. The organisation had helped change the political environment in favour of an inquiry and, most likely, helped garner the belated support of the West Australian. As Bevan Lawrence later commented: ‘All the significant revelations in the press came through Brian Firth writing for the Australian or Martin Saxon for the Daily News. It is impossible for the casual observer not to associate some connection between the ownership of the paper at the time [the State Government Insurance Office and Bond Corporation through the joint purchase of Bell Group shares] and the West’s failure to get a sniff of the massive public deception.’52 Lawrence also may have played some part in his sister’s eventual decision. As it turned out, Carmen Lawrence lost the 1993 election and an inquiry would almost certainly have been set up by the incoming Liberal government. Nonetheless she had the courage to stare down her party on the issue. In fact she later told her brother how incensed the Burke faction was about the establishment of the Royal Commission and how much they were spoiling to damage her had they found a way to do so. The calling of the Royal Commission on 19 November 1990 placed the federal government under immediate pressure to recall Burke to face the inquiry. But even before he came back, he was the subject of another round of ugly allegations about his behaviour. In late 1990 information 155

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surfaced which provided a further glimpse into Burke’s capacity for intrigue. In a series of events that can only be described as bizarre, Burke became embroiled in allegations that he conducted a ‘dirty tricks’ campaign against the state Opposition through his involvement with a private detective, a former police officer called Robert Smith. Smith was charged with tapping the phone of a witness in the corruption and forgery trial of Len Brush, a Burke loyalist and former chair of the Government Employees Superannuation Board, at the instigation of Brush’s coaccused, businessman Robert Martin. Brush admitted receiving two cheques, each for $50 000, as interest-free loans from Martin at the time they were conducting government business negotiations involving the state superannuation board. Both were eventually acquitted. However at Smith’s bugging trial, intriguing evidence was revealed about his links to Burke. Burke had employed Smith at the height of the Brush loan affair in March 1987 to conduct ‘debugging’ operations in ministerial offices as the premier was concerned about government leaks. But a federal police raid on Smith’s home, conducted in December 1988, also uncovered a folder of file notes labelled ‘GOVT’ and diary notes referring to ‘BB’. During his trial Smith claimed that this reference was simply a code for the businessman Robert Martin. Smith was jailed on the phone tapping charges and there the matter rested until Martin Saxon wrote an article in the Sunday Times revealing the full extent of Smith’s notes on his work for Burke. These showed that Smith began investigations into the Liberal Party a week after he had commenced work on the debugging operations. Saxon wrote that Smith sometimes even dropped the ‘BB’ code and simply referred to Burke as Brian. Saxon’s exclusive on the diary notes showed that Burke was orchestrating a major ‘dirty tricks’ campaign against the Liberal party by using Smith to gather intelligence about its activities. Saxon wrote that Burke ‘received a transcript of the secret tape recording—made by his brother Terry—which contained allegations about a $30 000 bribe to a Stirling City councillor . . . [Smith’s targets included] maverick Liberal backbencher Ross Lightfoot and then Opposition leader Ian Laurance. Mr 156

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Lightfoot had been instrumental in getting police to investigate the payment of $150 000 to Mr Burke’s close friend Len Brush.’53 The reference to Stirling City Council is of more than passing interest. The revelations on the tape were the catalyst for Carmen Lawrence to call the WA Inc Royal Commission. The allegation centred on Stirling City Council granting planning permission for Bond Corporation’s controversial beachside Observation City development. Saxon’s published accounts of Smith’s diary notes showed that ‘Terry Burke [had] called at Smith’s office to be shown how to use a hidden tape recorder. The Premier’s brother was on his way to a meeting with a prominent Liberal identity.’54 As later revelations showed, Terry obtained an alleged confession from former Liberal Premier Ray O’Connor, who had briefly succeeded Sir Charles Court, to having offered a bribe to a Stirling City Councillor. Terry then handed the tape to his brother, who did not report the matter to the police. (O’Connor was subsequently convicted of lying about the involvement of a prominent Stirling City councillor in the bribery.) There is no suggestion that Burke was involved in the bribery, but his actions are disturbing nonetheless. Why the need for such clandestine behaviour? And why did Burke condone the secret taping of allegations of bribery and not pass these allegations on to the police? Few could have suspected that their premier lived in such parallel worlds. No easy explanation can be found for Burke’s involvement with Smith other than he was playing his own game of intrigue and Machiavellian politics. To fend off his opponents Burke went to lengths where few would dare to go. In December 1990, when the Royal Commission into WA Inc was presented with the allegations about his involvement with Smith, Burke was still serving as ambassador to Ireland. Several weeks later he was back in Perth to face the Royal Commission and his ties to Smith were raised anew. Burke gave a media interview in which he denied any involvement and claimed the private detective was working for the Labor Party and not under his instruction. ALP State Secretary at the time, Michael Beahan, was quizzed by the media about the allegations and he offered a 157

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different version of events. The detective had been hired, he said, only ‘after he had been recommended by Mr Burke [and] only to sweep the Labor Party’s Beaufort Street offices for listening devices’. The intrigue deepened when the media tracked back to some statements Burke’s former driver and minder, Vince Shervington, had made in December to a Legislative Council select committee during which he claimed that Burke had instructed him to pass messages to Smith, including to ‘get something’ on selected prominent Liberals. Shervington told the Committee that ‘Smith had dropped off packages at his [Shervington’s] house—one labelled ‘‘BB’’ which could have contained a tape recording’.55 The whole affair looked terribly sordid but no-one had turned up evidence of any illegal activity on Burke’s part. However, there was one important lingering question: who was paying for Smith’s services? Saxon had alluded to the presence of Burke’s long-time confidant and former media adviser Darcy Farrell who, it was alleged, was being billed for Smith’s ‘dirty tricks’ campaign. Quietly and systematically probing Burke’s arrangement with Smith was Inspector Les Ayton. Since ceasing work on the Burswood Casino, he had gone on to head up the police force’s internal affairs unit. Ayton traced the money trail from Smith to Farrell and discovered that the payment to him came from an account at the Town and Country WA Building Society—the ALP Advertising Account, one of Burke’s Leader’s Accounts. The arrangement struck Ayton as odd: ‘Why would you pay a private investigator from a private building society if he is working for the government?’ As an experienced fraud investigator he knew he had to place a search warrant on the account and see what it turned up. ‘Pandora’s Box’ was about to open. Ayton found not one Leader’s Account but five, and the millions of dollars placed in them.56 In light of the recently established Royal Commission, Ayton went to Commissioner Brian Bull and said, ‘We’re on to a bombshell here and I need a team to investigate it properly.’ He was given half a dozen officers and they proceeded to track every transaction in and out of the accounts and interview everybody who had made a donation. The team assembled 158

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a board the size of a dining room table with details of each of the accounts laid out chronologically. They then met with the three royal commissioners, who were still coming to terms with the task ahead. When they saw the material laid out on the board ‘their eyes nearly popped out of their head’, recalls Ayton. They could hardly have failed to realise that their commission had been given its focal point: were the donations in any way kickbacks for favours? Meanwhile Burke’s reputation in the public’s eye was taking a further battering. Other unsavoury allegations were raised by Martin Saxon who, by now, had firmly established his reputation as Western Australia’s most talented investigative journalist. However, while he had written numerous articles on the scandals surrounding the business dealings of the Burke government, few of these dealt with Burke himself. This was about to change. Inquiries by Saxon in April 1991 provided new details to some old allegations that the Burke brothers had courted the owners of illegal gambling casinos in the Northbridge area in the lead-up to the 1983 election. Saxon described a meeting between the illegal operators and the Burke brothers which took place not long after Brian was elected leader in September 1981. Dining with them were Bert and Laurie Tudori, who ran the Il Trovatore illegal casino, and at least one other club operator. Saxon wrote that the meeting was set up by one of the businessmen ‘who was a close friend of Brian Burke’. Over a meal, the Northbridge group asked about the Labor Party’s attitude towards legalising their operations. Bert Tudori told Saxon that during the discussion it was suggested that the two clubs might donate $100 000 to the ALP. Tudori, a long-time Labor supporter, claimed he was subsequently approached for the money by several Labor Party members. Tudori said he ‘had planned to secretly tape record the meeting with the Burke brothers but his brother vetoed the idea’.57 The evidence for the story was somewhat inconclusive. Bert’s brother had died by the time the story was published in April 1991 and one of the other club owners present denied the allegations, while a third 159

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confirmed that discussions over donations had occurred. Whether or not Saxon’s claims were fully verifiable, their timing was bad for Burke. When the story was published, Saxon could not elicit a comment from either of the Burke brothers. Brian, still in Ireland, was reported to ‘be away for the weekend in the country’ and could not be contacted, while Terry was travelling overseas. No further confirmation of the allegations was forthcoming. In fact Burke had not long returned to Ireland from one of his periodic trips to Perth. He was more than appraised of all the inferences surrounding the impending work of the Royal Commission because on 1 March he had attended a police interview requested by Inspector Ayton at the office of Burke’s lawyer, Hugh McLernon. Ayton had asked for the interview so that the material could be tendered to the Royal Commission.58 Even though it was early morning, Burke’s demeanour was ‘silky smooth’, recalls Ayton. He found the former premier speaking in his quietly modulated, self-assured way and although experienced in reading people’s demeanour, Ayton could not detect any sign that Burke was worried about his position. Ayton questioned Burke about his involvement with Robert Smith and the existence of the Leader’s Accounts. Burke’s answers were contradictory on the key issue of the rightful ownership of these funds. Asked whether Smith was working for him or the ALP, Burke replied: ‘Well, I would say he was working for the Labor Party, and I’d say that for a reason. He was paid from Labor Party funds and he was paid as a result of a decision by the leader of the Labor Party . . . As Leader of the Parliamentary Labor Party, those funds weren’t mine.’ Asked directly about the Leader’s Accounts, Burke explained that they were set up to protect donors’ anonymity. He then gave the first of his blurred rationalisations about who controlled the funds: ‘They were ALP funds, that’s absolutely correct, and the fact that they are ALP funds is a result of the view of the Leader about the funds.’ Ayton asked Burke whether there was anything he wanted to say, to which Burke gave a garbled response that he did not want ‘the thing to be made public until I’ve had a chance to think through it and to . . . you know, I mean, I know you won’t make it public.’ Ayton, of course, gave 160

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the appropriate assurance. It was the faintest flicker of acknowledgment that beneath his calm self-assurance Burke knew he was no longer in control of events.59 Less than two months later, Burke’s tenure as ambassador was cut short. At the end of April 1991 he flew back to front the Royal Commission. His impact in the Dublin post was limited. So consumed had he been by maintaining his political networks, keeping abreast of political events in Western Australia, dabbling on the side in business interests and taking regular visits back to Perth that there was little time for the serious business of diplomacy. The diplomatic circuit called Burke ‘a mystery man’; he was rarely seen out and was presumed to have spent most of the time with his family.60 After all, Dublin was only supposed to have been a resting place for Burke—he was thought to be destined for federal politics. But the Royal Commission would change the course of his life forever.

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ON 8 APRIL 1991 WESTERN AUSTRALIA and the nation experienced a decisive moment. On that day Laurie Connell, the quixotic figure of WA Inc, took to the Royal Commission witness stand. Never again could the public be under any illusion about the involvement of big money in politics. Connell’s star had been all but extinguished. His once extensive coterie of social contacts had shrunk to a handful of lawyers. In Perth’s business networks, it had become a case of ‘Laurie who?’. Gone were his dreams of a nationally renowned stud. Gone were the four-hour lunches—these days Connell was rarely seen out at dinner. Mostly he was holed up with his lawyers, including two Queen’s Counsels for whom the last of his resources had been allocated. However he was not about to lie down without a fight. His evidence would cause a sensation. Once it got underway, the WA Inc Royal Commission had Western Australia, and the nation, transfixed with its revelations about the most secret, inner dealings of a premier who had placed himself above democratic conventions. For months on end sensational revelations poured out almost daily, like dirty water from a blocked drain. The process was cathartic, but the WA Inc Royal Commission would find plenty of transgressions of good governance although very ambiguous evidence 162

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about Burke. The avalanche of information about impropriety, together with his evasiveness on key issues, condemned Burke in the eyes of most. In fact, after its exhaustive investigation the commission found ‘comparatively little evidence of illegal or corrupt conduct’, but added the important rider that it had not been able to ‘ascertain the truth in all instances’.1 How was it that such ambiguity could emerge from such an exhaustive inquiry? Held in three compact and functional rooms in downtown Perth, the commission might have appeared to outsiders as a no-frills operation but it was a lavishly resourced inquiry with more than 150 staff. It quickly became ‘the best show in town’.2 The media interest was frenzied; the drama unfolded like a soap opera. Parading across the public consciousness daily in the newspapers and on television was a cast of high-profile characters many of whom suddenly looked like undesirable types. The public galleries were packed; in fact one journalist covering the events commented, ‘if you had sold tickets, you would have made a fortune’.3 Spectators milled around the lifts and in the lobby hoping to catch a glimpse of any star witnesses. The commission set up a television monitor on the floor above and security staff were constantly ferrying the public from one floor to another. All this activity was driven by one underlying dynamic: the desire for retribution against those responsible. Brian Burke was in the public’s sights from the first day Laurie Connell took the stand. Next to Burke, Connell was always going to be the star witness. His tactic to reveal all, clearly worked out with his legal team, was to spread the blame so that he did not risk taking too much of it himself. In fifteen brutal, opening minutes of testimony he ‘ripped the lid clear off the once blessed union of WA Inc’.4 Every sinew in his bull neck must have tensed as he slashed his way through the WA Inc era, covering his role as a key adviser to the premier, the huge donations he made to both state and federal ALP governments, and the generosity of the other entrepreneurs who donated to the Leader’s Accounts. He even claimed that Burke had asked him to spy on the Liberal Party. Connell’s evidence was later described as a bombshell.5 163

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Under relentless questioning from leading counsel for the Royal Commission, Brian Martin QC, Connell detailed the maze of political largesse that enveloped Western Australian, and national, Labor politics. But there was a nagging inconsistency in Connell’s initial evidence, one that went to the heart of the commission’s purpose: had Brian Burke ever threatened or coaxed in his soliciting of donations? It seemed to Martin that during his hours of testimony Connell had shifted his evidence on this point. From implying Burke used threatening tactics in his evidence before lunch, Connell went on to suggest his approach was a more generalised ‘back-scratching’ agreement suitable for all. Burke did not need to use threats, Connell explained, because he had enjoyed a good relationship with the premier and he had done well under Burke’s government and wanted his government to continue.6 Given a calamitous falling out between the two men, Connell seemed to be revealing some remorse for what had transpired—that behind their mutual self-interest he had a genuine liking for the man. In the days that followed Connell certainly took a pounding from Hugh McLernon, Burke’s lawyer for the opening stage of the hearing. A journalist covering the day’s events observed: The most McLernon got was irritation and exasperation from the previously imperturbable Connell. After four days in the box, Laurie Connell was certainly getting testy, as McLernon probed for a slip with such emotive prods as ‘Are you seriously saying that you did not consider yourself to be a trusted adviser?’ or ‘Do you genuinely believe . . .?’ or ‘I beg your pardon? You don’t recall a deal which cost you 10 million?’ After nearly three hours, McLernon had failed to draw blood, but he left the odd bruise and elicited an interesting insight into the shallowness of these famous WA Inc friendships.7 Withstanding such relentless probing, hour after hour and for days on end, would test any person’s mettle. Connell had psyched himself for the challenge. He sat comfortably in the witness box. His posture gave no 164

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hint of shame or embarrassment, just ‘quiet, controlled defiance’. And why wouldn’t he be composed? Connell had come to the commission as if it were ‘his party’.8 As Connell’s evidence unfolded a sensational allegation emerged, which became one of the most intensely discussed examples of the murky world of political fundraising. Connell told the Royal Commission about a prime ministerial assurance he had received at a lunch in Perth on 15 June 1987. He claimed he donated $250 000 to the federal Labor Party after Bob Hawke promised not to introduce a new tax on the gold mining industry. Connell had recently invested in a gold mining operation, but he explained that while his decision to donate was not tied to the gold tax it was influenced by it. The lunch that Connell referred to was arranged by Terry Burke in his capacity as a fundraiser for the 1987 federal election campaign. It was billed among its selectively invited ‘four-on-the-floor’ guests as an opportunity to meet the prime minister. Connell said the purpose of the meeting was to raise cash and lots of it.9 These allegations placed Hawke on the defensive in federal parliament for several days. Under fierce Opposition questioning, he initially denied that any discussion of the gold tax had occurred at the luncheon. Later he acknowledged that it was ‘entirely possible’ such a discussion had occurred, because of the prominence of the issue in Western Australia. But he reiterated his claim that no private commitments had been made. In this clarifying statement to parliament, Hawke admitted the government had in fact ‘decided against the introduction of the gold tax before the lunch, and he had personally advertised it on several occasions’. This, he further explained, proved his government’s policies could not be secured by offers of financial support. But, according to the Sydney Morning Herald ’s Mike Seccombe: ‘While Mr Hawke’s explanation initially appeared to have got him out of the difficult position of having contradicted evidence before the royal commission, it omitted any reference to a crucial development in the Government’s policy of the tax, which appears to have occurred after the lunch. That was a promise 165

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by Hawke, without reference to Cabinet, that the moratorium on the gold tax would last for three years.’10 Another Canberra press gallery journalist wrote that Hawke had ‘a dreadful time defending himself against the daily drip of Connell’s evidence, what with his [Hawke’s] lapses of memory, his stumbles, his failure to brief himself properly . . . plus his two apologies, one of them as graceless and grudging as it’s possible to imagine’.11 In its report, the Royal Commission found that Hawke was not involved in seeking the donation. However, the episode was a mirror of the wider issues of WA Inc and was treated as such by the press: with so much money floating around the political system, it was impossible to confirm when influence was being bought and when it was not. Almost as an aside, Connell gave the commission one further scrap of information about his once powerful friends in Canberra. Just days before the infamous lunch, federal minister for the arts Graham Richardson appointed Connell to the Board of the National Art Gallery.12 The grenade Connell threw into the commission set the tone for what was to come. Burke flew in from Ireland on 21 April to prepare his testimony. Through the twenty-five-hour flight his mind must have been whirring about how he would project himself in the court of public opinion. As a master of the media, Burke knew first impressions would be all important, and in a climate in which the public mood had darkened considerably since he had left the Western Australian political stage he decided to take his accusers head-on. On arrival in Perth he held a press conference at the airport. Surrounded by a forest of media equipment and with his face drawn and defiant, he immediately announced that he had no intention of resigning his position as ambassador and, in vintage style, declared that he would be dispatching the claims against his activities ‘into a cocked hat’. Moreover, he asserted that he was ‘simply a bystander who has since been amazed to learn what was really going on’. He had not done anything illegal, he insisted, and angrily denied claims that the prime minister had won large electoral donations on the basis of stopping a new gold tax. Described by one observer as a ‘bravura performance of 166

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will and outrage that impressed his long-time admirers’, even he seemed to relish being back in the cut and thrust of parrying with the media. As Burke later told a journalist: ‘You saw that press conference, I’m good. I’m 25 hours on the plane, get off the plane and I can still do it, right.’13 Of course ‘doing it’ was media spin. But he was in far too much strife for such a glib line. He resigned his position a week later, after he and the Hawke government came under intense criticism. The media began prying into his background. A feature article in the Sydney Morning Herald pointed to the source of Burke’s drive to control the millions derived from fundraising activities.14 It had uncovered his infatuation with Huey Long. The article made a brief, passing reference— the only known published one—to the shadow Long had cast over the scandals now unfolding in the commission. Burke gave several interviews before taking the witness stand. Real or not, he appeared to be pitching for sympathy. He invited two Sydney Morning Herald journalists to his home for a two-hour interview. They found him introspective, verging on tormented. He fidgeted and fretted as he told his story. He explained that he had been crying a lot, spending his days slumped on the couch in his modest bungalow unable to watch the news. He complained that his friends had deserted him. He was also keen to distance himself from his actions in government. There was nothing wrong with his philosophy of forging links with business in an entrepreneurial spirit, he explained, and the fact that he had failed was not his fault but due to the actions of others. He lashed out, seeing enemies almost everywhere. ‘The entrepreneurial model’, he explained, ‘almost got there, but came undone because of vested interests—old money, bureaucracy, political opposition, even sections of his own party, who found it ‘‘too threatening for them’’—and because ‘‘I think I underestimated how much of it was in my head’’. Today he is the victim, he believes, of a ‘‘whole coincidence of vested interests and vested positions and things’’. He paused, then added, ‘‘That sounds like I’m blaming someone.’’ ’15 Burke knew whom to blame. Not long after he arrived back from Ireland he sought a meeting with Carmen Lawrence, which subsequently 167

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took place at her house. He sat across from her at the kitchen table and proceeded to hector her about the Royal Commission. He was tense and hostile and his language fluctuated between intimidation and flattery. His message—she was the worst thing that had happened to the Labor Party. Of course, Burke was in denial about the reasons behind his downfall. His fascination for power remained undimmed. Not long after returning from Ireland and amid the gathering controversy, Burke lent his well-thumbed copy of the biography of Huey Long to a friend and newly active member of Labor Party, telling him, ‘Read this—this is how you do politics.’ Burke remained unrepentant about the events now engulfing him. One of the people who had extensive dealings with him during this period was John Quigley, who was to become Burke’s lawyer.16 On first meeting Burke several weeks after the commencement of the Royal Commission hearings, Quigley found his client calm and unflappable, concerned but not overly anxious. Quigley went on to play a significant, and fateful, role in Burke’s life during a time when the ex-premier was at his most vulnerable and most demonised. It was a role for which few other lawyers could have been better prepared. During the opening weeks of the Royal Commission, the recently divorced Quigley would watch proceedings on television each night while sharing a beer with his father. He had a lawyer’s detachment from the predicament of each of the witnesses and focused on the theatrics of the occasion, casting a critical eye over his colleagues’ professional performances. He was completely unsuspecting when one day he took a call from Burke’s lawyer, Hugh McLernon, whom he had known since school. McLernon explained that he had decided to give up the law and he wanted Quigley to be his replacement on the Burke case. Accepting the brief on the spot would prove a defining decision in Quigley’s life. It consumed three years of his life and thrust him headlong into the career of one of Australia’s most controversial politicians. Quigley occupies a rare place in Australian legal circles. He has managed to combine a controversial career while maintaining widespread respect. Tall, loose-limbed and with a shaved domed head, his 168

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distinctive physical attributes complement a commanding personality. In full flight his restless energy, rapid-fire conversation and fondness for social interaction make him a force to be reckoned with. He confesses to being obsessive about his work and over the years has frequently stayed up all night plotting cross-examinations. He is practised in the art of defending his clients’ interests not just in the courtroom, but in the media as well. Like the fictional character Rumpole of the Bailey, Quigley is temperamentally suited to the role of defence barrister, rather than prosecutor. An experienced court reporter once acknowledged that she had seen him give ‘some of the best final addresses that have won cases’. But as his public profile rose, so did the unwarranted intrusions into his life. The staunch Catholic has had the occasional death threat. On one occasion his secretary walked into the boardroom after a press conference he had held and passed him a note from a male caller which read, ‘Tell John Quigley he’s a dead c . . .’. His attraction to repartee and the cold, calculated probing of witnesses has drawn him into more than his fair share of controversial cases. His career was forged over several decades acting principally as an advocate for the Western Australian police and prison unions at a time in their history when a steady stream of their members found themselves accused of a range of serious crimes. Quigley’s record of success in defending these public officers reached almost legendary status. Immediately before agreeing to act as Burke’s lawyer, he had spent three gruelling years defending over 200 Western Australian police and prison officers in the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody. Despite the welter of publicity these cases had generated, no-one was charged. Quigley also defended the police officer charged with the manslaughter of John Pat, a sixteen yearold Aboriginal who died in controversial circumstances in a Pilbara lock-up with injuries that defied easy explanation. So notorious was the Pat case when it came to court in 1984, that it became the focal point of Aboriginal efforts to set up the Royal Commission into Deaths in Custody. The case generated national media attention. ‘It took me a 169

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while to realise that it was on the tourist bus circuit—part of it was to go and see the coppers on trial in the John Pat case. So every day at half past eleven the whole gallery would fill up,’ Quigley explained. By successfully probing for the weaknesses in the evidence of the key witness, Quigley had his man acquitted. Apart from a relentless style, Quigley owed his success as a defence barrister to the skills that had been drilled into him by an eminent legal sage of the ‘old’ school, Brian Singleton, who stressed two things: first, ‘When you go to court always ask to see the original documentation, the complaint sheet, the arrest warrant, always go back to the start of the investigation because the cops will change it all the time and lose their ground and think of something new’; and second, ‘Do a very serious job here, John. At the end of the day someone is either going to jail for a significant period of time or they are going back to the Criterion Hotel to buy us a beer.’ With Burke about to face some of the most experienced prosecutors in the profession, Quigley was the right man to have in his corner. But, though battle-hardened in high-profile cases, defending Burke in the Royal Commission was as intense a challenge as he could hope to face. Reputations were at stake. The commission’s lawyers were led by Brian Martin QC. Also a man of impressive stature, Martin was described by one journalist as ‘a very compelling figure with a great sense of court room drama’. Well briefed, thorough and effective, he had a reputation for being a hard-head in his approach to cross examination. It was said that the ‘softest thing about him was his teeth’.17 Unlike a trial, Quigley knew that in an inquiry there are ‘the political balls in play’. At the start he was not confident Burke would emerge without a significant finding against him, but he was confident his client had not breached any part of the criminal code. With a team of four lawyers, including his former mentor Brian Singleton, Quigley advised Burke through the nearly two years of hearings, hearings which often carried an unpredictable element. As Quigley explains: ‘The Royal 170

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Commission would do its work very secretly and quite often you wouldn’t get a statement until you walked through the door of the commission in the morning. A witness could appear at short notice and [commission] staff would tap you on the shoulder and say this witness will be called in two minutes.’ He would come to think of the WA Inc Royal Commission as an inquisition because, from his perspective, it lacked basic procedural fairness. At the end of his time with Burke, Quigley suffered one of his rare defeats as a barrister. At his first briefing with Burke Quigley found his client worried but unflappable and, significantly, imbued with a conviction that he had done nothing wrong. When Quigley came on board, Connell had already given his evidence about the millions washing around in the Leader’s Accounts. But while this had caused a sensation in the media, it was not Quigley’s starting point in his defence of Burke. Training told him to commence with whatever original documents existed. It was then he became alarmed. He believed Burke had made a grave mistake in agreeing to Ayton’s request for a police interview. ‘The police had been assigned to assist the Royal Commission and there wasn’t a crime alleged against Brian Burke at this stage, there was just the Royal Commission. I knew there had existed in the Western Australian police a great deal of hatred for many aspects of the Burke government. In fact they had passed resolutions of no confidence in his minister. Then the police had been working on all aspects of the affairs of his government and he rolls into a police interview where he is cautioned, then participates in it for hours.’ Burke had not thought through the potential problems associated with the Leader’s Accounts, the ownership of the stamps he had bought with money from this account, nor the purchase of the gold bars. These were deposited into a high-risk gold trading account where a substantial number had been lost. In fact he was not sure what the police knew about any of these dealings. As Quigley explains, in a police interview ‘your first given answer is the one you are going to have to wear’ and Burke had ‘compromised his position’. 171

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So when the day came to give his evidence in the commission Burke was on the defensive, retracting and correcting much of his earlier testimony, giving revised explanations and claiming memory loss for much else. It was not a convincing performance. He did not cut half the impressive figure that Connell had a few weeks earlier. Unlike his now sworn enemy, and in spite of his periodic shows of quiet resolve, Burke had not toughened himself for this particular task and, with the forty-eight-page record of police interview, he went into battle seriously weakened. More so, too, because of the negative publicity surrounding his resignation as ambassador. He’d been bruised by the clamour for him to resign his official post just days before he was due to appear in the commission. Burke had enjoyed lavish political protection from senior Labor figures in Canberra after his troubles with WA Inc began. Hawke was said to have gone ‘to lengths for Burke that surely he would not have gone to for any other ambassador’.18 Reluctant to recall him from Ireland to face the inquiry, federal Labor suffered an embarrassing defeat in the Senate when the Opposition demanded he be recalled. He had Labor heavyweight Senator Graham Richardson stoutly standing in his corner, infamously saying Burke had been victimised because he was ‘famous, sloppy and Labor’.19 Once home he was granted ‘special leave’ to appear before the commission but public and political pressure eventually reversed that position amid damaging accusations that he was being given special treatment. His eventual resignation was, not surprisingly, front-page news and it carried the impression that he had been dragged into it by public pressure. Media interest had reached the point of frenzy by the time Burke appeared before the commission. More than twenty-five separate news organisations—local, national and international—had sent journalists to cover it. The media was provided with its own floor from which to work with a television monitor that relayed proceedings from the hearings. The West Australian, under editor Paul Murray, had six reporters compiling four to five pages a day on the hearings. Every day the paper ran late because it was so difficult to get stories filed from the commission, where 172

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the hearings did not finish until 5 p.m. Murray came under significant pressure from management because the saturated coverage was said by some to be damaging circulation. Burke thought the paper’s coverage amounted to a witch-hunt and he was ‘spewing’ about the amount of it. Burke and Julian Grill believed that Murray was on a crusade to wreck the Labor Party. The commission might have descended into a media circus had the revelations not been so serious. Helping to fan public interest was the ABC’s 7.30 Report. Anchored by Alan Carpenter,20 the program employed actors to re-enact each day’s evidence. To create as much of the same drama as the day’s hearings, actors’ identities were only handed out after someone had sprinted from the commission to the ABC with a piece of paper in their hand.21 These live-to-air pieces captured the public’s attention. On one occasion, Dallas Dempster’s lawyers complained that their client was being portrayed wearing ghastly ties he’d never be seen dead in and they were worried that this might be creating an unfair impression of him. As this vignette highlights, the power of the media to create impressions—to manufacture a uniform view—was an ever-present danger. Reflecting on this a few years after the event, Carpenter believed that for all the high energy of the competing media outlets, the commission’s hearings were conveyed to the public with a remarkable degree of sameness. This had as much to do with the pressures journalists were under as from any preconceived ideas. He recalls one journalist jumping on what he thought was a scoop after he shared a lift with Burke, who passed on a trivial but interesting bit of information. When the journalist went over to the studio to record his voiceover, ‘. . . there was someone in there with exactly the same information. Doug had to wait outside until this fellow came out and asked—‘‘Where did you get that? I was the only one in the lift with him’’. He said ‘‘Mate I read it on your script as it popped off the printer’’. This particular journalist had covered the Royal Commission by learning how to read upside down.’22 In the heat of such sensational allegations and claims, journalists fed off each other and into the public’s outrage. The result was a loss of some 173

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perspective. What did the allegations against Burke and his cronies actually amount to? What democratic processes had been corrupted? What laws had been broken? These deeper issues were often lost in the detail. Against the backdrop of Connell’s sensational evidence of a few weeks earlier, the public eagerly awaited Burke’s appearance before the commission. But counsel assisting, Brian Martin QC, had an uphill battle in discovering whether there was more than a smell of corruption surrounding WA Inc. With Brenda Brush having destroyed all the records in the premier’s office relating to the Leader’s Accounts several years earlier, and with no damning evidence given by any of the witnesses about money for favours, Martin had precious little to go on. This didn’t stop him from trying: ‘Mr Burke, were you ever aware of any perception amongst business in the city or state that those who were successful were those who were close to government?’ He was aware, he told Martin, that people were saying those sorts of things but nothing untoward had occurred. In fact he claimed that he issued instructions to both Cabinet and Caucus ‘that there could never be any suspicion that any donation was tied to any particular action or approval’.23 Substantiating any evidence of personal corruption arising out of the Leader’s Accounts proved equally elusive. Burke muddied the waters about who actually owned this money, as he had hurriedly done in his police interview with Inspector Ayton. He claimed that all the donors had one thing in common ‘which was that at my discretion they were happy for their donation to be used’. In other words, the money in the Leader’s Accounts was neither the unambiguous property of the Labor Party nor was it by implication his personal property. Rather, it existed in the grey area of who had the authority to spend it and that, Burke claimed, was him alone.24 The commission wasn’t able to establish the amount held in Burke’s office safe. The figure of $100 000 is the one usually bandied around, but this comes from Brenda Brush’s admission of siphoning off that amount from a single donation from Yosse Goldberg. Burke’s driver and personal assistant, Vince Shervington, seemed to hint in his evidence to the commission that the $100 000 was 174

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more like a permanent float. He said that whenever he wanted money, he would just go and count it out and pay for what was needed. No transactions, he said, were ever recorded.25 Whether or not Burke stole money from the Labor Party via the Leader’s Accounts to fund his own stamp collection became a prime focus of the tussle between Burke, Quigley and Brian Martin. Burke claimed that he had been purchasing stamps, along with gold bullion, as a long-term investment for the Labor Party. The exact expenditure was unclear but Burke thought it amounted to $200 000 in gold and $87 000 in stamps. He further explained that he intended to donate his personal collection of stamps to the party. Quigley unsuccessfully protested the matter was a ‘fishing expedition’, and unrelated to any of the terms of reference.26 But it revealed again Burke’s attraction to high-risk behaviour. As he told the commission, he invested the hundreds of thousands of dollars from his Leader’s Accounts ‘without any professional advice about the gold market’.27 Investing in stamps was another matter, however. Here Burke had expertise. The commission’s legal team had been given a private inspection of his stamp collection prior to him giving evidence on the matter. They were providing Burke an opportunity to demonstrate he could identify which stamps belonged to whom. Quigley, who was also in attendance, was suspicious that Burke might be entrapped if he verbally stumbled during the exercise, so commission staff agreed that he would not be interviewed about the stamps but that he would be given a set of colour stickers: Burke would place a red, yellow or green sticker on the stamps according to whether they belonged to him, his grandfather or the Labor Party. It appeared to Quigley that his client did not have any difficulty allocating a colour code to the various stamps, even though later on he asked to correct a few. But what nobody had reckoned on was the sheer size of Burke’s collection. In thirteen large cartons stretching along one wall was a philatelist’s dream. Burke came into his own as he started pouring over his many rare and impressive specimens. Even the commission staff who had agreed not to talk to Burke through the 175

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exercise were completely transfixed as he began explaining the background and significance of parts of his collection. There was the stamp that came out on Kingsford Smith’s first flight, postmarked in London and Sydney; there was another that had been taken on a space flight to the moon. The commission officials were impressed and Burke was anxious to keep delving further into his collection because he hadn’t seen many of the stamps for some time. Brian Martin, however, clearly thought the whole exercise improbable and went on the offensive when Burke gave his evidence. Margot Lang, who covered the Royal Commission for the West Australian, observed the many hours of verbal combat between the two men. She noted that Martin did not hesitate ‘to turn the knife when needed’. When Burke responded in anger to these taunts, ‘he looked to be cornered’.28 Martin’s fierce questioning drew flashes of anger from Burke and he became conspicuously agitated. He shouted and was highly emotional.29 But Burke never stayed angry for long. He was also the master of playing a ‘dead bat’ to his adversary, as in the following exchange: MARTIN: Mr Burke, once you were overseas [in Ireland] and you put the stamps in the album you were able to distinguish, were you, simply from memory which ones belonged to the Labor Party and which ones were your own personal collection? BURKE: Yes. MARTIN: Who else could do that without your assistance? BURKE: No-one. MARTIN: Mr Burke what would have happened had you died? BURKE: I hadn’t thought that through. MARTIN: If this Royal Commission had not eventuated and you had chosen not to tell the Labor Party about the existence of these stamps no-one would have discovered them?30 Almost breathlessly, Burke agreed and chimed in with the observation that the investment in gold would be similarly unaccountable. 176

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In later questioning on his stamp collection, Burke came under fire from Martin over the discovery of a separate batch of stamps. These consisted of three elaborately framed sets which Burke had had inscribed ‘The Brian Burke Collection’. He had intended to donate these to the ALP, but left them stacked with a lot of framed pictures in his garage when he left for Ireland, he told the commission. Burke had made no reference to their existence when originally asked to submit details of his entire stamp collection. When asked by Martin why he had not done so, Burke said that ‘he had forgotten about them’. Martin thought this explanation implausible.31 Burke’s evidence on the specifics of the WA Inc deals did not reveal much. Journalists lost count of the number of times he uttered ‘I can’t recall’. He was fleetingly questioned on the financial deals with his brother and on the loan arrangement with Des Traynor. But the exchanges were perfunctory and suggested that the commission had inadequate details on these matters or regarded them as side issues. This, in fact, was not the case. Superintendent Les Ayton, who by this time was working with the Royal Commission as an investigator, had been sent in secret to England and Ireland with two other investigators in September 1991 in an attempt to follow the money trail. His objective was to prepare a prosecution case against Connell, as the conclusion had been reached within the investigative team that Connell had been laundering some of the Rothwells millions overseas, although it was not known how much had disappeared into a ‘black hole’. The press only found out about this trip a month after Ayton’s departure when the Sunday Times speculated: ‘The precise purpose of the highly unusual trip is not known. But the only WA Inc figures with obvious links to the Emerald Isle are the former Ambassador Mr Burke and . . . Laurie Connell.’32 The West Australian also tried to track down the whereabouts of the senior policeman they dubbed ‘super sleuth’. A reporter for the gossip column Inside Cover rang police headquarters only to be faced with an icy reception. ‘We hear he’s off on a Connell money chase.’ No comment, came the curt reply.33 177

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Prior to leaving Australia, Atyon and his team of investigators had established that Connell had in fact used an international accountancy firm to set up shelf companies through which to launder some of the funds he filtered out of Rothwells. Ayton had strong suspicions that ‘many of the big WA Inc players were washing their money in this way’. He and his team, supported by a specialist accountant, spent thirteen weeks in London and a week in Ireland in a fruitless search. As he recalls: ‘We came across a spider’s web of money managed by some of the leading accountancy firms in the world knowing full well that it was black money.’ In Ireland Ayton interviewed Des Traynor without knowing anything about his clandestine involvement with tax havens and his relationship to Irish Prime Minister Charles Haughey. As far as Ayton was concerned he was the respectable manager of Guinness & Mahon Bank, but he remembers being taken by surprise when he met Traynor, who somehow did not look the part. He was ‘a small, shifty man’ who ‘knew exactly what was happening and who did his level best to divert my attention’. Ayton was not able to establish the involvement of either Burke or Traynor in any irregular financial transactions. However, in one small personal victory he discovered antique furniture belonging to Connell worth in excess of one million English pounds which Connell had bought through disguised entities and other names. Connell ‘parked’ the furniture in a London warehouse before changing the details of its ownership and transporting it to Switzerland, after which it disappeared. Ayton would draw salutary lessons from his experience about the ability of governments to fight international money laundering: ‘I didn’t have the resources but even if I had it would not have justified the result. To do a thorough investigation about international money laundering is impossible anyway without statutory powers. I was an Australian policeman outside his jurisdiction. It wasn’t an international investigation, so it had no jurisdiction whatsoever. Every time I wanted to get a search warrant to go through a bank or a financial house I had to beg the local authority to do the job for me.’34 None of this information made its way 178

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into the Royal Commission’s report. The reason is obvious: it revealed nothing of substance to the inquiry. Puncturing the shady world of international money laundering was not the only obstacle preventing the Royal Commissioners coming to more definitive findings. Witnesses could not always provide the evidence expected of them and Burke had a contortionist’s capacity to talk his way out of potentially tight spots. These two problems were highlighted in evidence given over Burke’s involvement with private detective Robert Smith. The police were reported to have been very concerned about the relationship.35 However, as the Royal Commissioners found, ‘Mr Smith was less than frank in his evidence about the work he did for the Labor Party under the guise of working for Mr Farrell. He took the stance that he was working for Mr Farrell in fact and that he could not recall the nature of the functions he performed.’36 In his evidence Burke tried to turn the secrecy of the arrangement into a virtue. He said there was a need for some subterfuge in relation to Smith because of the ‘desirability of satisfying any inquirer that the work was separate from and not paid for by the Government’.37 But who, in Burke’s mind, might want to inquire into his relationship with Smith? Burke did not elaborate. There were even more startling allegations about the relationship between Smith and Burke which also proved impossible to substantiate. In Ayton’s report to the commission, he said that ‘Smith’s phone message pad revealed he had open access to the police information system. It also revealed that access was used on behalf of Mr Burke’.38 Ayton also highlighted that Smith was found with internal police documents in the initial raid on his home, some of which were ‘possibly damaging to Mr Burke’. Speculation as to why the premier would give a private detective confidential access to police information proved equally difficult to verify. Commissioners questioned Smith about the police material in his possession, but he ‘denied having unlawful access to the information’. Tantalising but unprovable, Burke’s shadowy dealings with Smith incurred no adverse findings, despite Ayton believing that Robert Smith 179

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was potentially a key witness to the inquiry on several fronts. Ayton told the commission that he believed Smith was ‘the key to linking politically explosive material seized from his premises . . . to some of WA’s power elite, including businessman Dallas Dempster and former premier Brian Burke’.39 When Ayton first interviewed him, Smith was ‘highly agitated and indicated that he was prepared to speak out on a number of issues’ and that ‘he was in a position to bring down several people of influence’.40 But Smith did not turn out to be the hoped-for ‘roll over’ witness. Police bargained with the convicted phone tapper in the hope he would reveal all they thought he knew. But to no avail. Ayton detailed his frustrations to the commission which reported: ‘He hoped Smith would lead them to the sharks but all we got were the minnows.’ In the end the chief crown prosecutor, John McKechnie QC, refused to bargain over dropping federal charges against Smith. Ayton was left feeling his strategy had failed leaving, in his view, ‘half a dozen what-ifs raised in the commission’.41 The Royal Commission was faced with other limitations to its inquiries. For example, it had no knowledge of Des Traynor’s sordid background and, while he tendered a statement to the inquiry, he refused to make himself available to give evidence. At the end of the day it was extremely difficult for the commissioners to find evidence for all the rumours and innuendo. For example, it was put to Burke that he had received a $16 000 ‘gift’ from Western Australian Development Corporation chairman John Horgan while he was locked into negotiations with Horgan over his lucrative contract.42 It was not clear where the allegation came from but nothing further was made of it by the commission. The commissioner had to conclude that while there was no evidence of personal corruption, they had not been able to determine the truth in all matters before them. As they further explained, the inquiry had compiled a wide range of confidential material which was beyond its reach to investigate. Despite his shaky start and occasional emotional outbursts, Burke 180

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handled himself with steely resolve throughout the commission’s hearings. But the ordeal took its toll on his health. According to Margot Lang, Burke looked ‘puffy and pale-faced’ when giving his evidence.43 Given the media hype and public outrage swirling around Burke, Quigley had never seen a witness under more stress. He recalls Burke taking a very heavy fall during a luncheon adjournment and refusing the opportunity of an extension of the break. Burke simply got up, rearranged his papers and went straight into the hearings and gave his evidence: ‘I can’t think of any other person I have represented who would have had the inner strength to recover like that.’ Others, however, saw a different side, reporting that Burke was falling apart because of the trauma of his public disgrace. Former colleagues outside the hearings saw only his watery blue eyes and blank looks. One brushed past him in the street and remarked that Burke ‘almost walked through me . . . it was the eyes, the blank look from a man unaware of the tragedy that’s happening around him’.44 Showing different emotions according to the setting was now an established pattern, making it very difficult to discern the real Brian Burke. Sue Burke attended all of her husband’s hearings. Still media-shy and private, she continued to draw strength from her faith and was said to be a daily communicant at her local church. By now her public demeanour was set like stone; with a storm thrashing around her house she was ‘cool and graceful’. According to Quigley, ‘Sue was never sitting on the edge of her chair wringing her hands in consternation.’ She had become practised at absorbing the strains of Brian’s public life, but she had never had to endure anything like this. In a rare reference to her, Burke once acknowledged that his wife was emotionally the stronger of the two of them and explained that her strong Catholic faith gave her a sense of perspective. She would tell Brian it would all pass, it was ‘just a grain of sand in the whole of eternity’.45 But the family faced uncertainty with Brian out of work and facing poor employment prospects. Burke cried poor in mid 1992, claiming he had ‘no money of any magnitude’.46 This is hard to fathom given his substantial superannuation payout, his recent acquisition of property and the fact that his legal bills were being paid by 181

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the state government. Nonetheless he must have believed he faced a hard road because earlier he took on a tough challenge from one person who came to his assistance. Lang Hancock, the iron ore magnate, bellicose right-wing ideologue and major donor to the Burke government, became the former premier’s benefactor. In June 1991, and while still facing on-going involvement in the Royal Commission, Burke was signed on by Hancock as a consultant, with sufficient flexibility to allow him to attend hearings when called to do so. Hancock explained that Burke’s skills would be of use to the company but he indicated a measure of generosity was also involved: ‘Mr Burke is still a young man with a large family to support and he needs a job.’47 Burke’s principal task was to run a steel plant in the Eastern Siberian town of Komsomolsk. At the time the economy of the former Soviet Union was in free fall and the mill offered opportunities to produce steel for export from disused army tanks and aged railway stock. For someone who had not travelled widely and shown little curiosity about other places and cultures, the long trips away in remotest Siberia must have been a real culture shock. Replacing the sun-lit beaches and azure waters of his suburban backyard was a town so polluted that even Russians sniffed derisively at its very mention. As was so often the case with Burke, accounts of how he fared are contradictory. SBS-TV tracked Burke down and reported an ebullient ex-premier, almost bursting with good spirits: ‘What was noticeable,’ reported journalist Belinda Hawkins, ‘was his extraordinary enthusiasm for being entrepreneurial and getting something going, which I would not have expected.’48 It is not surprising, perhaps, that Burke would seek to put on a positive face for public consumption. In fact the job in Siberia was more of an ordeal, as John Quigley found out in conversations he had with his client. Burke felt frustrated that all his telephone calls were being monitored by the state security services and, without his family on these trips, he felt terribly isolated. To add to his woes, the flights between Moscow and Eastern Siberia were ‘terrifying ordeals’. 182

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When Hancock’s daughter, Gina, took over Lang’s empire in 1992 she dispensed with the Siberian mill. Burke convinced a Western Australian company, Parmelia Resources, to buy the mill. Terry Burke was also involved in the discussions. They must have sold the potential of the project brilliantly because as part of his remuneration, Burke received one million free options from Parmelia. The project which ‘looked good on paper’ quickly failed. However, Burke had sold his shares for $1.4 million before the Parmelia share price headed south, dropping from $1.50 to 10c a few years later. Burke had received another windfall.49 On the rollercoaster that was now Burke’s life, the upswings did not last long. Before the Royal Commission’s report was handed down, Burke suffered two further blows to his image. Sunday Times journalist Martin Saxon, who by now had won a string of awards for his investigative journalism, continued his probing of the Burke brothers. On the back of the revelations coming out of the Royal Commission, Saxon focused on Burke’s property dealings. He, along with many others, realised that the Brian Burke emerging from the Royal Commission hearings was not the character he had presented during his premiership. Saxon wanted to explore this contradiction in Burke—to strip away what seemed to be the myth of the ‘Boy from Balga’ who had lived in the same house for years struggling with a mortgage. Burke’s sudden shift to property dealing, some of it conducted through his brother’s company and in the name of others, just ‘didn’t fit with the image’, Saxon recalls today. ‘I don’t care about how much money he wanted to make, but don’t pretend to be an ordinary, knockabout, struggle street guy, because you are not. The perception of what he was as premier was not borne out by what he quickly became. In my view you don’t suddenly decide to be an entrepreneur.’ Saxon’s investigations revealed ‘an amazing merry-go-round of money’ beginning within a few weeks of Burke leaving office and inextricably linked with a company set up by brother Terry.50 These investigations showed that in addition to paying off the mortgage on his Balga house, Burke paid out another mortgage on a block of land which had been bought the previous year in the name of Sue’s mother and purchased a 183

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smaller block next door. In late 1989 Burke also purchased a 37-hectare rural retreat for $150 000 in the south-west of Western Australia and later was involved in the purchase of a house in Trigg and a duplex around the corner, both one street from the ocean. Terry’s company, Ambergate Nominees, was involved in the purchase of the last two properties. Saxon wrote: Brian Burke has denied in evidence to the WA Inc Royal Commission that there was any arrangement—in the widest or loosest sense—for him to share in the commission paid to his brother . . . The former Premier was not questioned in the royal commission last week about what he needed the $185 000 [loan from Terry] for. The question of whether Brian Burke or Ambergate owns [the Trigg house in which Burke was then living] was not pursued by the royal commission . . . Brian Burke told the royal commission that he knows very little about Ambergate Nominees. The company appears to play a key role in the Burke family financial web. Inquiries by the Sunday Times indicate that the $600 000 fund-raising commission paid to Terry Burke in 1987 went, at least in part, through Ambergate.51 And so began Burke’s rise as a property tycoon which, in time, would make him a multimillionaire. However, although his financial prospects were good, he still had to face the handing down of the Royal Commission report. His immediate fate depended on how his evidence would be judged. But events continued to drag him down with the rush of an outgoing tide. In the lead-up to the release of the Royal Commission report his battered reputation took a further hammering. In the second of his investigations into Burke’s business affairs, Martin Saxon teased out the details surrounding Burke’s car-trading activities in Ireland. While giving a detailed account of Burke’s trading, Saxon’s main focus was the allegation that the Department of Foreign Affairs, led by Senator Gareth Evans, covered up the extent of its knowledge about what Burke had 184

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been up to. Evans had made a statement in parliament following the return of the departmental officer sent to investigate Burke’s car purchases that he had satisfied himself that Burke did not know about the rules limiting the number of purchases to two, and that he had not seen the circular stipulating the rules. According to Evans, Burke had simply broken the rules ‘inadvertently’. Saxon initiated a Freedom of Information request covering the department’s investigations and was sent some documents, ‘enough to show that Burke’s claim that he didn’t break the rules was bullshit’. The resulting story, entitled ‘Canberra Cover up on Burke’, showed that: ‘A Dublin embassy minute paper, released under FOI, records that Mr Burke was given a copy of an administrative circular detailing the rules just a few weeks after he took up his ambassadorial post in July 1988.’ Saxon pointed out that two of Burke’s trade-ins, which were not reported to Canberra, were in breach of Foreign Affairs rules: ‘Any details about the two new cars he purchased duty-free on the trade-in have been deleted from FOI documents. It appears that Foreign Affairs takes the view that they are ‘‘private’’ vehicles—because Mr Burke ultimately paid duty on them—and therefore are not subject to FOI.’52 The following week Foreign Minister Gareth Evans took Saxon’s story to task in the Senate, dismissing the cover-up claims. In support of his position, Evans tabled further documents about Burke’s car trading. However, in a stroke of good fortune, the FOI officer at the department rang Saxon and alerted him to new documents. Saxon wrote another extended article in which he claimed the documents did show Burke had broken the rules. In fact, he had made a personal appeal to the head of Foreign Affairs, Dick Woolcott, for permission to buy a third duty-free car, even though Woolcott and his department may not have known that ‘Mr Burke already owned four vehicles at the time’. Saxon’s story also claimed that Burke had borrowed $50 000 from Traynor to fund some of his car purchases. Saxon quoted from a confidential statement Burke’s Irish car dealer, Ronnie Moloney, made to the Royal Commission: ‘I cannot recall now why he paid with a cheque . . . for more than the 185

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purchase price. The refund cheque was made payable to cash. At Mr Burke’s request, my company cashed the cheque and I handed the funds to him at his residence.’ To Saxon, this seemed highly unusual.53 From the time he relinquished his ambassadorship, Burke suffered as great a fall from grace as any Australian political leader in living memory. As his reputation was being put to the torch inside and outside the commission, the commissioners themselves were considering his fate. Their report would inject new and unpredictable twists into his story.

Public hearings of the evidence ended on 30 June 1992. The commission’s marathon proceedings had taken a toll on everyone involved. The teams of bright-eyed lawyers keen at the start to go into pitched battle every day had, by the end, grown weary. Many had shed kilos and forgotten what their families looked like.54 Less than four months later the 44 000 pages of transcript were transformed into a sixvolume report. Dense and overlain with forensic detail, the meticulous examination of events surrounding WA Inc was, nonetheless, a scintillating read—part political thriller, part commentary on human nature and power. When Quigley was handed the report on 19 October 1992, he knew what to do. He went straight to the summary of findings on the back page and ran his finger down the list. ‘I could see nothing there that Brian would wear a charge out of.’ He saw numerous references to misconduct and reprehensible behaviour that the commissioners thought went to the very heart of Burke’s lack of integrity. They wrote: ‘Processes of decisionmaking were often shrouded in secrecy. The reasons for decisions in many instances were not documented. The proper role and function of Cabinet itself was either poorly understood or deliberately abused by the Premier and senior ministers’.55 In one example, Burke was singled out for the ‘improper’ way in which he and his brother had conducted themselves over the Stirling City bribery allegations in which Terry secretly taped a 186

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conversation with Ray O’Connor and then failed to bring the allegations to the attention of police.56 The commissioners also made it plain that Burke’s version of many of the events was unconvincing. However, even allowing for the commissioners’ often scathing comments about Burke and his approach to government, Quigley reasoned they had reported nothing of an illegal nature. Quigley’s initial optimism was quickly dashed. Unbeknown to him, a secret report on Burke had been compiled by a police task force attached to the Royal Commission. It had been given the power to investigate any of the ex-premier’s actions. Its report was sent to the premier’s office and Carmen Lawrence passed it unopened to the Director of Public Prosecutions, headed by John McKechnie QC. In the report was a recommendation to prosecute Burke for rorting his parliamentary travel allowance. Police found Burke had ‘double-dipped’—on four separate occasions he had claimed travel expenses when the travel had already been paid for by the state, and a total of $17 000 had been deposited into his bank account. In this report, too, was the source of a second charge Burke would face: stealing from the Labor Party to fund his private stamp collecting. Although serious, the charges were faintly incongruous in comparison to the allegations raised in the Royal Commission. Arraigning Burke on charges of stealing money for stamps and rorting travel allowances amounted to being caught with a few fingers in the cookie jar. Nonetheless stealing from government as a senior official is a serious breach of public trust. Each of Burke’s trials had unique elements and need to be discussed separately. However two threads connect them: Burke still thinks he was the victim of a miscarriage of justice in both and there are doubts surrounding the impartiality of the law because of the high-profile nature of the cases. The irony is inescapable. Burke’s first trial in July 1994 for travel rorts attracted saturation media coverage. Yet many of the dynamics of the case lay beyond the public gaze. Police were responsible for bringing the charges against Burke in circumstances some viewed as a vendetta. The suggestion that 187

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the police may have been out to ‘get’ Burke has some support. Quigley subscribes to this view, which is noteworthy given his long record acting for the Police Union: ‘I knew there had existed in the Western Australian police a great deal of hatred for many aspects of the Burke government.’ He had two specific claims about police involvement in the charging of Brian Burke on travel rorts, including the suggestion that there was bitter disagreement in the police force about charging Burke on this matter. Some senior officers claimed there was insufficient evidence of his intention to defraud despite his apparent signature on the travel claim forms. But other officers, Quigley maintains, were hell-bent on charging Burke. He supports this assertion with a conversation he had not long after the Royal Commission report was handed down. As a guest of the Police Union at its annual officers’ mess evening, and amid the nips of neat whiskey and the tunes of a piped band, he was told by an officer that ‘it doesn’t matter what happens, we’re going to get him’. Of course, none of this can be proved now. But it does form part of a broader context of anomalies surrounding the case. These rippled out to include the office of the premier, Dr Carmen Lawrence. Once she had heard of Burke’s alleged travel rort, she announced a review of the travel allowances of all parliamentarians. This found several discrepancies, one involving Dr Lawrence herself, who was required to repay money she claimed was innocently overlooked when she was not able to take the intended travel. The review found that the existing travel scheme was sloppily administered and contained the potential for unintentional mistakes to occur. And yet it was only Burke who was brought to book on this loosely administered scheme. Much was at stake in his upcoming fraud trial. If found guilty, Burke stood to become the first Australian head of government to be convicted of a criminal offence.57 He engaged Quigley to act as his lawyer, and in preparing the case Quigley set about in characteristically dogged fashion, asking where the original documents were. The answer to this simple question would place the Burke trial in the mire, adding fuel to the claims that he was unjustly convicted. 188

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At the committal hearing, Quigley was only given photocopies of documents purporting to show Burke’s signature on the travel allowance claims. But, as Quigley knew, photocopies were unreliable evidence because of the possibility they had been ‘doctored’. Also, originals can provide other information. As Quigley explains: ‘I would have asked for an independent forensic examination to discover any light pencil markings, erasures, partial erasures or fingerprints. This may have helped to resolve . . . why they inappropriately went to Mr Burke, with pencil crosses indicating where he was to sign.’ In Burke’s case, staff members had his authorisation to stamp his signature on documents about routine matters which he would then check and approve. But if he did not check these thoroughly, then the possibility existed that he did not always know exactly what he was signing. Thus two options opened up for a line of defence on the charges: first that the documents themselves were unreliable and, therefore, inadmissible, and second, even if the documents had authenticated Burke’s signatures, he had not intended to defraud his travel account because he had been too busy to be fully aware of what he was signing. Quigley wanted to see the originals. When he approached the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions, John McKechnie reported that all the originals had disappeared. Quigley then discovered that the police commissioner had instigated an inquiry into how the documents had gone missing. The inquiry had been conducted by Superintendent Adrian Storm, who had written a report. On hearing of the report’s existence Quigley filed a Freedom of Information request for its release. As the trial drew closer, Burke instructed Quigley to appoint a Queen’s Counsel to lead the defence. They settled on a local, Geoffrey Miller. A decision now had to be made on which line of defence they would adopt. Miller favoured taking the line that Burke lacked the intention to rort. In addition he also pointed to the danger of claiming that a fair trial would be impossible without the original documents: the move could ‘backfire and affect a jury’s opinion of Burke’.58 Quigley was strangely unforthcoming in response to Miller’s suggestion. Instinctively 189

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he believed that using the lack of original documentation in Burke’s defence was the preferred option but he chose to defer to his more experienced counsel. The instant he demurred he felt he had failed his client. In the meantime a copy of Superintendent Storm’s report on the missing original documents had been sent to the defence team. It confirmed that the documents had likely gone missing in the DPP’s office but the investigation had not turned up any suspects. Storm said he had interviewed Burke and found no evidence that he had been involved in the disappearance of the documents. However, he did speculate that whoever stole the documents ‘may have strong political convictions and view the theft and destruction of these exhibits as favourable to the Labor Party [and Burke].’59 Storm’s loose speculation on this matter stymied any possibility that the defence team could raise the contents of the report as evidence in Burke’s trial. Miller’s chosen line of defence had its merits. As Burke and his witnesses explained to the jury, the atmosphere in his office was like a newsroom. Sometimes he would have a phone on each ear while simultaneously talking to three other people and signing all manner of documents. These would pile up on his desk. Most of the documents had been approved and cleared for him to sign. But Burke took a further step in his chain of explanations, claiming that ‘a public servant should have alerted him to the fact that he was “double dipping” from the public purse’.60 Without adequate warning he signed, but did not scrutinise, the documents authorising payment for the travel. Cheques were then sent to his electoral office where staff deposited them into his account. So busy was he that he rarely had time to peruse his personal finances. When the jury retired to consider its verdict, Colleen Egan, a young court reporter for the Australian, told her news desk that she didn’t think a guilty verdict was likely. The prosecution case was weak, Miller had argued the case forcefully and it seemed reasonable to assume that a busy premier would need to rely on staff to administer matters such as travel arrangements. One piece of evidence stood out for her, a document that only had half of Burke’s signature on it. It looked as if Burke’s signature 190

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had trailed off because he had been distracted by something else. However, despite her certainty about the verdict, she had a nagging feeling that the jury had not been well disposed towards the disgraced former premier. His manner was resolute and yet his eyes carried the look of someone who thought they were being victimised. One of her colleagues more experienced in jury trials expressed the equally firm view that Burke would be found guilty and he would go to jail.61 While the media was hedging its bets, Quigley was trying to keep his client occupied. He saw a good omen when Judge Kevin Hammond allowed Burke to wait in the witness room rather than being locked up in the cell, as was the custom. It was a tense wait. Sue Burke had sat through the three days of evidence with a calm demeanour but now she looked like a worried wife. Their six children had all been in attendance. After three hours the jury had not reached a unanimous verdict and Hammond left them to deliberate for a further hour. When this extension had expired, Quigley was given a message from the judge that he was about to dismiss the jury and set a date for a new trial. Burke and Quigley assembled in court prepared for the uncertainty of a new trial when word came back that a verdict had been reached. The tension in the courtroom was heightened when one of Burke’s sons, who was training to be a priest, was heard saying the rosary. Quigley knew the verdict before the members of the jury sat down: ‘They never look at the accused if they’re going to convict . . . The ordinary man in the street knowing the consequences of what he’s done can’t look at the bloke he’s done it to.’ When the foreman of the jury uttered the word ‘guilty’, cries were heard from Burke’s family. One of his supporters broke into tears. Miller looked devastated. Even McKechnie looked surprised. Colleen Egan reflected that it was ‘almost an impossibility that the jury weren’t affected by public opinion’. Yet there was no mistaking the money was in his account and his signature was on the documents. In his summing up Judge Hammond, who would cross paths again with Burke when he headed up the Corruption and Crime Commission, said the former premier had deliberately and knowingly made a 191

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false pretence on four separate occasions with the intention to defraud the state. Burke was sent to Canning Vale Prison where Quigley visited him late in the afternoon of the first day. They discussed the trial and Quigley assured Burke that he would do all he could to make public that the original documents were missing. Quigley released to the West Australian a copy of the Storm report he had obtained under Freedom of Information. It was front page news. He went on a media offensive expressing his grave concerns about the process of justice. Quigley was putting his professional reputation on the line by speaking out. Director of Public Prosecutions John McKechnie agreed the situation was of great concern but explained that he had told Storm that he doubted the documents ever reached his office. To cloud matters, Storm had died several months earlier. But McKechnie had a pointed dig at Quigley: ‘Whether or not it [the loss of original documents] was likely to affect the fairness of the trial was a matter very much in the control of the accused and his solicitor.’62 On the day of Burke’s sentencing Quigley arranged for character references to be presented to the court. Former prime minister Bob Hawke stated he had always found Burke ‘an honourable man’ and Kim Beazley described his old friend as a man of ‘the highest integrity’.63 An appeal against the conviction was lodged but it was rejected by the Court of Appeal. Burke spent a short time at Canning Vale Remand Centre, where he had been put on duty sweeping the reception area, before being moved to Wooroloo Prison Farm. The former premier was at the lowest point in his life. Burke went to prison at the same time as Laurie Connell, who was serving five years for conspiring to pervert the course of justice over the AHA Cup racing saga. He was suspected of paying a well-known crime figure for protection inside prison. No evidence has been found that Burke did the same. Accounts of how Burke fared at Wooroloo differ markedly. It would be impossible for this time not to be an ordeal. In addition to the loss of freedom, the prison farm was an antiquated facility, having been built as a tuberculosis hospital in the 1930s. Prisoners had to share ablution facil192

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ities and sleep in dormitories. Burke started in the main dormitory known as the Bronx but soon moved to the section known as Wooroloo Heights, which boasted a pool table, breakfast bar, barbecue and inhouse movies. Word about Burke’s life at Wooroloo filtered out to the media via released inmates. Reports claimed prisoners complained of his loud snoring and that he was subjected to ribbing by prisoners. One report had a fellow prisoner yelling at him, ‘Hey Burkie, how come you robbed us?’ ‘I didn’t rob you,’ Burke is said to have replied. ‘Well, you’ve got the greens on and you’re in here,’ the prisoner retorted. Burke is said to have just smiled.64 As this response indicates, he did not appear to have been intimidated by prison. Another inmate who had called the Australian wanting to sell the former premier’s identification card gave a mixed report of Burke’s mental state. The released prisoner told Colleen Egan: ‘I was sitting in my mate’s cell having a cup of tea and the next thing I see is Burkie walking down the corridor to the showers, with blue prison jocks on and a towel slung over his shoulder. I said to him: “You’d better whack a towel around yourself because there are female officers and if you get one in a bad mood they’ll charge you [with indecent exposure].’’ Burkie said: “Thanks, mate. They may as well, they’ve done everything else to me”.’65 He described Burke as a pretty pathetic figure, saying he was fat, he snored and the other prisoners had to tell him to shut up. When the reporter told him the paper did not pay for stories, he hung up. Another report had Burke, in characteristic fashion, enlisting other prisoners to do jobs for him including making a cabinet and flywire screens for his room. He drew in these fellow inmates by his willingness to help with their problems.66 The highlight of the week was the Sunday sporting match prisoners played in the community. Burke was not fit enough to be selected as a player but, because he was well liked by the staff, he was selected as a scorer. Sundays became the day the family had together, with Brian sharing a picnic with Sue and the children while he tallied the points. 193

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The Burkes had always been close as a family; the experience of jail was said to have brought them closer together.67 In fact Brian seems to have come to a profound realisation about his life while inside. John Quigley glimpsed this one day when he visited Wooroloo. As he and Burke sat around the barbecue lazily flicking fallen tree nuts at a shed, Burke quietly revealed that, ultimately, his life was his family. He knew how much he loved them and how much they loved him, and nothing he had gone through had altered that. Moreover many of his old Labor mates continued to think of him fondly. It was as well he found some inner peace in prison because as soon as he was released, in early 1995, Burke had to face the further charges of stealing from the Labor Party. John Quigley had decided he could not take on the brief—after feeling he had professionally failed on the travel rorts, he could not pump himself up with the enthusiasm required for the next case. After an intense three years, their relationship ended. Quigley maintains Burke suffered a miscarriage of justice, but as a defence barrister he does not think it is his role to delve too deeply into the affairs of his clients. That is someone else’s brief. During Burke’s time in Wooroloo, the Liberal–National government of Richard Court, which had been elected in February 1993, was dragging its feet in response to issues raised in the Report of the Royal Commission. The commissioners had written that ‘the matters upon which we have reported reveal serious weaknesses and deficiencies in our system of government’.68 The Court government tried to diminish the significance of the commission’s recommendations because it held the view ‘that the problems in the 1980s in Western Australia were simply the fault of bad people, rather than any failing of the political system’.69 It took several years for the trial on the charge of stealing from the ALP to come to court. Burke claimed he could not find a lawyer who would take on the case and that he was forced to do much of the preparatory work himself. In April 1996, he asked for an adjournment of his trial because he found he was unable to defend himself. Judge Muller agreed. ‘It was patently obvious to me,’ the judge said, ‘that, at times, 194

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Mr Burke was overcome by stress.’70 However, Muller rejected a second request from Burke that Brian Martin QC be removed as prosecutor because of his work on the Royal Commission. Clearly Burke did not want someone of Martin’s ability to be given the head start of having detailed knowledge of the former premier’s answers during that inquiry. Finally, in February 1997 Burke’s trial came to court with Malcolm McCusker QC acting for the defence. Brian Martin was the prosecutor. McCusker elected to have a trial by judge alone, reasoning that it was important to keep public opinion out of the proceedings. The trial was always going to be a rerun of key parts of the WA Inc inquiry and it produced little in the way of new information. McCusker ran with Burke’s line to the Royal Commission that the Leader’s Accounts and the Labor Party were separate entities. As McCusker said, ‘What the leader does with the funds is a matter for his own conscience. The money is not the property of the ALP.’71 Martin was forced into arguing the semantics of ‘ownership’. When Burke was raising funds he was doing so for the Labor Party and no-one else; the underlying understanding was the money belonged to the party. Burke parried back by finding the grey area in the middle of the proposition. He was campaigning for the re-election of the government, his government; the party was a separate beast. And so it went on until the last day of February. Judge George Sadleir criticised Burke for his ‘false denials’ and claimed they formed a ‘pattern of dissembling’.72 He sentenced Burke to three years, a year less than Alan Bond had received for the $1.2 billion he had siphoned from Bell Resources, which he had purchased from Robert Holmes à Court in partnership with the Western Australian government at the beginning of 1988. Amid further scenes of family distress Burke was marched back to Wooroloo Prison Farm, where this time he found a colleague—former minister David Parker was serving out his time on perjury charges. Burke lodged an appeal and, after reviewing the case, the Court of Appeal found in his favour and took the unusual step of releasing him on the spot, offering to hand down its reasons later. Burke had served 195

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just five months of the sentence. Chief Justice David Malcolm concluded that it was not beyond reasonable doubt that the money belonged to the Labor Party, especially given the relevant part of the Criminal Code which stated that monies donated are ‘deemed to be the property of the person on whose behalf it is received’.73 Elated, Burke returned to the family home, where he was greeted by many of his loyal supporters. Burke made a series of fleeting comments on the day of his release before going to ground. He said he believed he was a victim of the 1980s: ‘It is almost as if the community has had to have someone to blame.’74 But if Burke thought his fall from grace could be explained so simply, he would be mistaken. As one journalist wrote of the quashing of his conviction, ‘it means that in law his conviction for stealing from the Labor Party was wrong—no more than that’.75 Burke also inferred he was financially ruined when he stated, ‘I can try to find work and will do my best to make sure we are all fed and clothed.’76 No doubt Burke’s trial had drained his resources but to suggest he was in dire straits was disingenious given his lucrative share trading and the property dealings of his company Abbey Lea Pty Ltd. It was not the first time Burke cried poor when in legal strife. In the following years Burke would turn his technical victory into a claim that he had suffered a miscarriage of justice. Clearly he felt aggrieved by his time spent in prison. But what impact had it had on him? Opinions of those closest to him differ. On the day of his guilty verdict, Malcolm McCusker said that Burke’s entire experience since 1991 had been ‘a heavy burden’ which had had ‘a severe effect on his psyche and his sense of personal value’.77 His old friend and colleague Kim Beazley thinks the ordeal of the Royal Commission changed Burke. Beazley reflects that while Burke was bitter about what had happened, the more corrosive impact on him was his cynicism: ‘Whereas he often got enjoyment from seeing the best in people he now saw them as bleaker and darker’.78 Reflecting today, John Quigley thinks Burke was a master of disguising his true feelings and that he masked the real impact of his legal ordeals. 196

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It would become clear in the next phase of Burke’s life that his personality did not undergo any significant changes. Burke was approaching fifty when he came out of prison and his framework for life had been set: he would continue his drive for power and wealth and pursue these aims by rationalising his actions. The dream of restoring the family name had also not been abandoned. Burke would rely on much the same skills to achieve these goals as he had in the past, although it now became possible to detect a harder edge. He would continue to live parallel lives. In doing so, Burke put at risk the things he said he loved most—his family and the ALP—in his quest to rebuild his life.

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IN 1997 BRIAN BURKE WAS RELEASED from prison for a second time. He had secured one of his few triumphs in recent years when his conviction for stealing was emphatically overturned in the Court of Criminal Appeal. Yet this victory could hardly have overturned his demoralisation or removed the stain of his long years of disgrace. He was shunned by many. He lived his early months out of prison like a hermit; he feared going out in public. One commentator brutally summed up his value to the world of business as ‘negligible’.1 It could, therefore, scarcely be imagined that a decade later the following assessment would be written about his standing and influence: ‘Whatever the issue, whatever the problem, if you want to do business in Western Australia, you rang one number. And on the other end of the line you could be guaranteed that the deep, steady voice would always answer: “Hello, Brian Burke speaking.”’2 With the same seductive, reassuring voice that had helped carry him to the heights of political power more than two decades earlier, Burke once again stormed the corridors of the Labor Party and corporate Western Australia. But, just as he had disfigured the world of politics, Burke would turn consulting into ‘the latest dirty word in business’.3 Burke’s re-emergence as a powerful figure has few, if any, precedents 198

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in Australian politics. To have fallen so far as to be thought without prospects and then to come back to a position of power within the ALP as well as develop a burgeoning consultancy business is a remarkable feat. But when this comeback also went bad, the questions about Burke’s character and approach become still more perplexing. What drove Burke to seek another tilt at wielding power and influence? Why did he again operate in unconventional ways? Burke’s time away from the limelight was spent helping his three sons, Peter, Tom and Matthew—all of whom had stayed on in Ireland after Burke was forced to relinquish the position of ambassador—to establish a Lenard’s Poultry Shop franchise there. At the time, this was a unique business in the country and Burke’s sons had the franchise for the whole of Ireland. Burke was involved ‘in the broadest sense’ but whether this included financing his sons’ business venture is not known.4 After licking his wounds for a time, Burke began to stage a carefully managed comeback. Its foundation lay in his self-belief—not just in his confidence to take on the challenge, but in the conviction that he had a right to regain respectability. In prison, where time dragged interminably, Burke had cast over the events surrounding his downfall. According to one well-placed source he rationalised that he had done nothing wrong and therefore had no need to feel remorse. However, his historical revisionism would not become apparent until a few years later when he would begin courting the media again. In the meantime, he gained additional reassurance that he had been the victim of injustice from his family and his band of loyal supporters. In short, Burke exonerated himself from his WA Inc days and lived in a bubble of self-denial about the excesses and improprieties of that era. Burke also hardened his approach to the world as part of the reappraisal of his life. Just as he had changed his persona to claim the leadership of the Labor Party during the early 1980s, so too he transformed elements of his style to launch himself as a consultant. His re-emergence was marked by more overtly ruthless and grandiose behaviour. Prison played its part in this process but so did his determination 199

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to rise to the summit again. Nevertheless the old Burke was still there. The stealth-like personality, the fascination for secrecy and intrigue, the his fatal attraction to pushing the boundaries of accepted practice all became abundantly clear as he climbed, uncertainly at first, back into the bear-pit of factional party politics and on into corporate Australia and its potential for riches. Burke’s entree into consulting was facilitated by old mates. Union leader Kevin Reynolds provided crucial support. Their friendship had continued after Burke left politics, Reynolds later explaining: ‘I’m too old to rat. Burke has been a mate of mine for 30 years and will be a mate of mine till the day I drop dead or he drops dead.’5 At Burke’s invitation, Reynolds had stayed at the official residence in Dublin during Burke’s tenure as ambassador. Reynolds, like Burke, had become a larger than life figure by the late 1990s. As if a caricature, he had adopted the style of an old-school Tammany Hall union boss. Sporting trademark braces straining on either side of a bulging gut, Reynolds had managed to combine his position as secretary of the Construction, Forestry, Mining and Engineering Union—an amalgamation of the old Builders’ Labourers Federation—with a successful business career as the owner of an outersuburban hotel bought in partnership with Derek Robson, a Multiplex director. Because of the potential conflict of interest there were whispered rumours about the arrangement. Facing the 2002 Cole Royal Commission into the construction industry, Reynolds dismissed any suggestion of impropriety and, in characteristically blunt language, told the commission: ‘If I need to give Multiplex a flogging it doesn’t worry me one bit that Derek Robson owns a share of the Coolbellup Hotel.’6 The Cole Royal Commission agreed, making no findings of impropriety against Reynolds. Reynolds would go on to to amass a multimilliondollar property portfolio while fighting for the causes of the working class at the same time. Speaking against John Howard’s Work Choices legislation, for example, the owner of a luxury unit with a sweeping view up the picturesque, yacht-strewn Swan River frothed: ‘It’s an absolute 200

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class warfare. It hasn’t changed. It’s them and us, between the haves and the have-nots.’7 Reynolds’ union provided Burke with consultancy work as well as a car and a mobile phone.8 Burke was also hired by the Shop, Distributive and Allied Employees Association, a union with which Mr Reynolds’ second wife, Shelley Archer, had strong connections. Archer, who happened to be a lifelong friend of Burke’s, would later proclaim her devotion to her ‘mentor’ and secure a seat in the upper house of state parliament through the support of the right wing of the party, over which Burke had long exercised significant control. Unfolding events would reveal a surreal quality to Burke’s relationship with his friends. As one journalist commented, the loyalty Burke attracts ‘can be scary’.9 It was also through the Reynolds and Archer network that Burke was able to revive his direct influence in the Labor Party. In the late 1990s Burke gradually reasserted control of the Right through the support of the ‘Shoppies’, while Reynolds continued to control the Centre. The two formed a tight alliance, marginalising the Left. Patronage has long been a central feature of the Labor Party, as Joe Chamberlain’s long career amply demonstrated. Although the near total dominance Joe Chamberlain exercised was not replicated in the modern Western Australian party, Brian Burke came close. He had imposed his will through force of personality in the 1980s; a decade later he was more reliant on forging alliances. This process had been made easier by the waves of union amalgamation in the preceding decade, as Carmen Lawrence explains: ‘A few key players control the party. The control is down to four unions in Western Australia. The membership is thin and the branches have practically no influence. So you don’t need to control many people to control the Right. Burke kept his connections with the Shop Assistants Union and he inserted family connections as organisers. He never really left that group.’10 Compounding the problem of patronage has been the institutionalisation of factions within the party. ‘You don’t need to go out and convince many people [to gain power in a faction] and you are not answerable in 201

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the way you ought to be in a democracy,’ observes Lawrence. While not all play this game, those who do not can get marginalised. As Lawrence further reflects, ‘The use of threats, intimidation and seduction is one way of getting power in political parties.’ Such behaviour exists to varying degrees in both the Liberal and Labor parties, but in the case of Labor over recent decades patronage has been especially concentrated in the right wing of the party. Former federal Labor leader and foreign minister Bill Hayden once quipped that being referred to as a mate of the New South Wales Right was ‘akin to getting flowers from the Mafia’.11 This colourful reference highlighted the culture of unquestioning loyalty many see as embedded in the faction. As one prominent New South Wales right-wing figure explained, ‘Once you’re a mate, you’re a mate forever and you don’t rat. It’s some sort of invisible glue that binds us together.’12 It was in the bosom of this Labor culture that Burke’s skills and influence had always thrived. Burke’s ability to command a power base in the party was also helped by the fact that many members of the parliamentary party had convinced themselves that he had done nothing wrong. One senior ALP figure explained: ‘No-one really believes Brian deliberately diddled his travel allowance, and then he was cleared of the second charge. So there was a view around that Brian never did anything wrong.’13 A Burke loyalist said that close to half of the then sitting ALP members felt fondly towards the disgraced former premier, regarding him as ‘almost a Godfather figure’.14 Burke was therefore able to paint himself as someone who was slightly tarnished but generally harmless and had been hard done by. Some of the loyalty displayed by his supporters was due to Burke’s reputation as a brilliant political strategist. And, of course, Brian was without peer in quietly promoting this reputation. His political skills always contained a measure of self-fulfilling prophecy: the more people believed he could deliver, the more he was able to deliver. The net result was an ever-expanding network of Burke loyalists in the party. ‘He used to talk himself up and he sold his influence brilliantly,’ reflects senior Labor Party minister Jim McGinty. His phone rang constantly with 202

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ministers and senior Labor Party figures keen to tap his political nous and secure his support. Burke achieved virtually the impossible: he had engineered a second coming as the Godfather in the Labor Party. By 1999 he was a dominant influence in his own right and, in combination with Reynolds, controlled the party. And, as the revelations in the later Corruption and Crime Commission showed, Burke dispensed patronage with both charm and ruthlessness. But just as he was reasserting his power in the party, Burke uncharacteristically overplayed his hand. In the lead-up to the 2001 state election, the preselection process in the outer suburban seat of Ballajura split Burke’s right-wing faction and reduced his influence. With a streak of arrogance and in an apparent move to undermine the premier, Geoff Gallop, Burke thrust his chosen candidate onto his own faction. He had gone one step too far. Driven by Stephen Smith, the federal member for Perth, disaffected members of the Right left the ‘old’ group to form a ‘new’ right-wing faction. One longstanding member of the faction described the transition as akin to leaving an abusive relationship. Opinions differ on how this skirmish impacted on Burke’s position in the party. Some maintain that in over-reaching and splitting his own faction, he thereafter became a wounded factional warrior who was still able to muster his own ‘old’ right-wing faction and still able to bluster his way into blocking preselections but unable to exercise the degree of power he desired. Others, who read Burke’s personality more critically, saw his tussle with Gallop as a temporary setback. Behind the scenes Burke networked and cajoled to rebuild his position. After the election of the Gallop government in 2001, he adopted multiple strategies to achieve his desired outcomes on preselections and ministerial appointments. He still maintained his personal friendship with Reynolds and had strong contacts with national right-wing unions. When needed, he could call on these contacts to pressure local branches. At other times he deployed his loyalists to make individual representations to Gallop, giving the impression that broader party support existed for particular issues. On occasions he enlisted his business contacts to speak directly with 203

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government in favour of particular appointments. Few serving Labor backbenchers are prepared to go on record to discuss Burke’s power in the party during this period. They fear his continuing influence and his reputation for litigation. One current Labor backbencher, who says Burke wielded considerable power behind the scenes throughout the period of the Gallop government, explained Burke’s modus operandi: ‘You’re either part of the family or you’re not. If you are, Burke has a prearranged role for you. He calls you, he tells you what he wants. He would flatter those who were compliant and stroke their ambitions. If you decline to cooperate, he’s very displeased with you and you suffer the consequences—you’re no longer a member of the family.’ Flattery was sufficient to get compliance from most of those Burke targeted. Others eventually folded because they perceived—or feared— he had the power to determine their preselections. One Labor parliamentarian told the Australian in December 2006 that she was ‘being pressured to stand aside to let one of Burke’s designated acolytes stand in her seat . . . the Burke faction had exaggerated rumours about some health problems she had been experiencing and suggested she was considering retiring, which she was not’.15 Just how many members of parliament Burke could call upon for support is difficult to determine; some suggest a dozen, others more. And while most of them were in the Right he also cultivated members of both the Centre and Left, although every effort was made to conceal these relationships. Using his Labor power base and his union-initiated consultancy, Burke moved into the world of lobbying sometime between 1999 and 2000. Around this time he formed a partnership with his old friend and former ministerial colleague Julian Grill. Possessed of similar ability to polarise people, Grill has been praised by some for his contribution to his local community, while others found him to be aloof and quietly ruthless. He was on the periphery of damning WA Inc findings but escaped without incurring serious damage to his reputation.16 Filmed coming and going from the Corruption and Crime Commission, he cut as equally an eye-catching figure as Burke. And like Burke, he had a demeanour that 204

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seemed to fuel his critics. With slicked-down hair parted near the middle, impeccable suits and an expressionless face, he walked with an economy of movement that had him gliding down a footpath. Burke and Grill, who became Australia’s most notorious lobbyists, were oddly matched in some ways. Grill had his roots in Perth’s wealthy western suburbs, the very community Burke had traditionally loathed. Grill moved comfortably among its legal and business fraternities and had the knack of retaining influential friends there. He also mixed in a milieu keen on theatre and foreign films. But like Burke, Grill enjoyed being a mover and shaker in the corporate world and was as ambitious as Burke to succeed. Despite their differences in background, they complemented each other as business partners. Whereas Burke worked the contacts, Grill applied a lawyer’s methodical mind to the detail such as negotiating ‘success’ fees, special loadings for completing assignments beyond agreed outcomes or ahead of time. He also had the distinct advantage of having solid connections to mining company executives, having spent years wining and dining them in the parliamentary dining room. Those familiar with the lobbying industry have little doubt that Burke was the main driver in this business partnership. Some detected more than a hint of sycophancy in the way Grill related to his partner. He seemed in awe of Burke’s skills and was ever ready to promote them to clients. Indeed, Grill often arrived early at meetings with clients so he could introduce Burke with the respect befitting a former premier. On at least one occasion he suggested that they stand when Burke swept into the room. According to Burke, no formal arrangement existed between him and Grill, rather theirs was a ‘gentleman’s agreement’ to work together on different accounts on a fifty-fifty split. Grill would later maintain that he and Burke operated no differently to other consultants, but this was clearly not the case. Together they fused their party connections with their business interests. In the first months business was slow and the pair kept out of the limelight. Their break came with the election of the Gallop Labor government at the beginning of 2001. From then on they could trade on 205

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their connections and fully develop a consultancy model that fused insider politics with delivering success for business clients. However, a showdown with the government was inevitable. The new premier had a well-earned reputation for integrity. Along with his senior ministers, who had been through the searing experience of the WA Inc years, he was determined to impose rigorous standards of conduct on his government. Nevertheless, assuming the responsibilities of office meant operating in the shadow of the Burke years. As Jim McGinty, attorneygeneral in the Gallop government, reflected, WA Inc ‘was almost a branding iron on our forehead—DON’T GO THERE’.17 As a member of the Right, Gallop was more than aware of Burke’s influence in the party. The last thing he needed was a resurgent Brian Burke compromising his efforts to run a squeaky clean government. While Burke’s return as a powerbroker was gathering momentum, the family was struck by tragedy. Brother Frankie was hit by a car on the busy West Coast Highway in March 2002 while returning home after a swim with Terry. As he lay in a coma, the family prayed. Frankie had been a focal point of their affections, so when he died a week later they were devastated. He had also played his own part in Labor history through the work he inspired Tom to undertake for the Slow Learning Children’s Group. As Frankie’s body was interred next to Tom’s, an ashen-faced Brian appeared briefly reunited with his father’s spirit. Managing his future prospects distracted Burke from the grief over Frankie’s death. Business was increasingly beating a path to his and Grill’s door. Former politician-turned-lobbyist Barry MacKinnon saw some of his clients drift away: ‘Whatever they were doing it was effective from a business point of view.’18 Another lobbyist, speaking anonymously, claimed that clients developed an appetite for the results delivered by the pair: ‘They [clients] were saying “other people will do it, why won’t you?” It’s a subtle market out there and that’s had an impact on all of us.’19 Evidence of Burke and Grill’s modus operandi has come from private telephone conversations secretly taped by the Corruption and Crime Commission. The scale of the taping is staggering: 13 000 calls were 206

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recorded in a ten-month period.20 Taken at face value, these conversations show Burke and Grill in a forceful but frequently grubby light. However, some caution needs to be exercised in using this material. In some instances the context of the calls may be missing. Burke would later allege that not all of the conversations he had had with ministers were collected by the Corruption and Crime Commission, thus preventing them from obtaining the full picture of his activities. Nonetheless sufficient material was gathered to illustrate the methods used by Burke. It is abundantly clear from these calls that Burke (and Grill) ruthlessly exploited contacts inside the Labor Party to build the consultancy. And there was no greater loyalist to Burke than his old friend, the affable Norm Marlborough. As the member for Peel, Marlborough met with numerous business delegations frustrated with the processes of Gallop’s government. As Matt Price discovered: ‘When the business delegation makes contact, Marlborough suggests they employ a couple of experts. An introduction is arranged and the businessmen are taken aback when Marlborough wheels out Brian Burke and Julian Grill. The delegation is wary but Burke talks his way into their employ. He empathises with their frustration, discusses strategies for pressuring the Government, and leaves the meeting with a retainer and the promise of a success fee.’21 Premier Geoff Gallop later said of Marlborough: ‘I knew about his relationship with Brian and the stranglehold Burke had on him, and I knew it would be impossible for Norm to separate their friendship from their public duties.’22 Burke and Grill regularly spoke with loyal mates in the heart of government. In addition to Marlborough, Minister for Resources John Bowler and upper house member Shelley Archer were prepared on occasions to do Burke’s bidding. Archer, in particular, was alleged to have acted as Burke’s go-between in the corridors of power. Prominent Liberal politican and former leader of the party, Colin Barnett, told parliament: ‘they [Burke and Grill] had used Hon. Shelley Archer as their person on the inside. She even admitted in the CCC that she was their go-between. She was not acting for her constituents; she was not 207

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acting for this parliament, the Labor Party or the good of the people of Western Australia; she was acting for Burke and Grill.’23 But Burke’s capacity to influence decision-making reached into the broader parliamentary Labor Party, where he used patronage derived from his factional position. He also maintained a network of contacts in the bureaucracy. Burke brought to the consultancy business many of the characteristics of his operating style as premier: charm, patronage, intimidation and a willingness to push existing boundaries. Yet there were subtle changes in his personality that were important to his success as a consultant. He was more bellicose, more prone to boasting of his prowess and he had a greater fondness for foul language and direct intimidation than he seemed to have displayed in the past. Always ready to do business secretly in his WA Inc days, he appeared even more addicted to intrigue in his comeback. Given that he was prepared to make use of many of his former friends and colleagues, his willingness to apparently deceive his old friend and current business partner Julian Grill is dumbfounding. In an extended, taped conversation with a client Burke said: ‘I need to speak to you in the strictest confidence. I’m not even telling Julian . . . Don’t talk to Julian, he’s got no idea past a three-point plug . . . I don’t want him to find out that I have been less than forthright.’24 ‘Burkie’, the anxious, image-conscious and controlling premier, had found liberation in being just who he wanted to be: the best wheeler and dealer in town. And he did not imagine that he would ever be made accountable. As business started to grow, Burke moved to the next phase of his strategy for public rehabilitation—using the media to project an image of himself as someone who had been unjustly dealt with over WA Inc. Just what role the media played in Burke’s elevation up the ranks to respectable consultant has been the subject of some acrimonious commentary. Certainly Burke remained an object of media interest; his reflections on his downfall were highly sought after. But if most people had expected Burke to be contrite, apologetic or ready to seek forgiveness, they were to be very disappointed. Nothing was further from his mind. In 2001 Burke agreed to be interviewed by former editor of the West 208

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Australian, Paul Murray, for A Current Affair. Participating in the interview with Burke was former senator Noel Crichton-Brown. Crichton-Brown had been expelled from the Liberal Party in late 1995 for a series of offences including uttering obscenities to a female journalist. He later narrowly avoided a jail term when convicted and fined for ‘fraudulently claiming travel expenses for a female companion’.25 The interview gave both these former disgraced politicians the opportunity to reflect on their public image. When asked if he thought he was ‘damaged goods’, Burke took Murray’s question head on: ‘Well, I don’t feel disgraced. I know who I am. I’m confident about who I am and the important thing for me is that my family are a source of constant and very loving support and enjoyment.’ Softening his image further was Burke’s admission that he harboured no bitterness. Murrray did not shy away from asking some of the questions many Western Australians had, for years, wanted answers to, including why he maintained a relationship with ‘militant’ Kevin Reynolds.26 The answers themselves were not very illuminating. Burke came across as evasive and self-justifying; he refused to tell people of his ‘regrets and disappointments’. Murray asked Burke and Crichton-Brown to be election commentators on his morning radio program for the 2001 state election. The pair would be a kind of rogues’ gallery, make people talk and do well for the station. He knew there were risks involved but Murray and station management wanted to find a way to generate a buzz around their election coverage. Burke, in particular, had unrivalled knowledge of the voting patterns of Western Australians. He was able to recall the margins in individual booths in many electorates. The plan delivered all Murray believed it would. It did generate the expected controversy and the program was closely monitored by other media outlets. Many Western Australians listened avidly while others rang the station complaining it provided a ‘soap box’ for the controversial ex-premier. Some journalists criticised Murray for not tackling Burke over his past. But, in Murray’s mind, that was not why Burke was invited onto his program. He was there to use his political knowledge to explain 209

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what was going on in the argy-bargy of the election contest. Journalist Colleen Egan understood the reasoning behind Murray’s decision to put Burke and Crichton-Brown on his program. She says that while it ‘played a big part’ in Burke’s rehabilitation by giving him a position of credibility on an influential radio program with a host who enjoyed considerable political clout, it was, nonetheless, ‘a smart thing to do. It was fascinating radio—almost like hearing a voice from the grave’.27 While predicting a Labor victory under the leadership of Dr Geoff Gallop, Burke incurred the wrath of the party hierarchy by alleging it had neglected its blue-collar vote and that it was running several ‘dismal’ marginal seat campaigns. Still, Burke did have a dig at incumbent Liberal Premier Richard Court over his drug policy. Claiming unique insights into the problem from his time in prison, he labelled the Liberals’ call for placing the names of drug dealers and traffickers on a public register as ‘absurd’.28 Should Burke have been granted such a podium? Hindsight might suggest that the exposure Murray gave him helped Burke to come out of the shadows. However, this was only one element of the broader support Burke received from the media. Seemingly emboldened by this radio exposure, Burke pursued his contacts with Perth’s other media outlets with varying degrees of success. In 2002 he lunched with the editor of the Sunday Times, Brett McCarthy. ‘I know a bit about you,’ Burke began. ‘I know you’re a very strong character and an impressive individual.’29 This was merely the first phase of Burke’s attempts to ingratiate himself with McCarthy. Armed with his insider’s knowledge of the state’s politics, Burke would regularly ring McCarthy with suggestions for stories. ‘Some were useful, most went nowhere, all of them were self-serving for Burke.’ Burke also made a pitch to become a guest columnist. ‘He told me he’d be the best read columnist in WA, that our readers would be absolutely fascinated by what he wrote, that this would be a brilliant strategic move for the paper.’ McCarthy turned him down and never heard from Burke again.30 Burke received a much better hearing from the West Australian. Claim 210

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and counter claim surround the paper’s role in giving sustenance to Burke’s rebuilding of his image. He is alleged to have seduced old contacts on the paper and influenced favourable coverage in two substantial articles written about him in 2002. The underlying tone of an extended interview by Norman Aisbett was sympathetic and gave Burke an opportunity to engage in historical revisionism. He fended off the criticisms of the Royal Commission by claiming that its outcome was ‘predetermined’ by the adverse media whipped up around him. The closest he came to acknowledging mistakes was the following reflection: ‘Looking back, I was a high wire act. I was keen to achieve things . . . I trusted people and I never sought to protect myself.’31 Andre Malan also wrote sympathetically about the former premier, suggesting that ‘the man deserves better’ than his pariah status.32 Some critics have argued that the paper started barracking for Burke when editor Paul Armstrong took up duties in 2003. Described by journalist Tony Barrass as ‘an old-fashioned newspaper rogue’ with ‘a hide as thick as a London pea-souper’, Armstrong was soon accused of being in Burke’s pocket. But whether or not this was true, he reportedly loved dining out on rumours that he had ‘an open line’ to Burke.33 Armstrong’s hard-hitting attacks on the Gallop government, which saw him openly reviled by the premier in parliament as ‘an embarrassment’, left open the suggestion that the paper’s support for Burke was motivated by political reasons. The allegation that the West consciously promoted Burke was based primarily on two editorials—one criticising the government’s ban on Burke and Grill34 and a later one praising the lifting of the ban by Gallop’s successor, Alan Carpenter. In fact, one eastern states journalist thought the West had some hard questions to answer: ‘Would Burke have risen, Phoenix-like, to lord it over the State’s political and business community if he had not been given the green light by the West Australian? And, were some of the daily’s reporters prepared to turn a blind eye to Burke because of old relationships and his skilful propensity to dole out tidbits of news?’35 Yet it is also the case that, on a number of occasions, reporters from the West exposed the influence on government decisions 211

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being wielded by Burke. Aware of his influence neither Gallop nor, later, Carpenter were able to eliminate his power base inside the party.36 Between 2001 and 2003 Burke and Grill, acting for a number of highprofile clients, directly lobbied the new government on changes to payroll tax. The pair are alleged to have discussed the changes with one of Treasurer Eric Ripper’s senior advisers and ‘appeared to have inside knowledge of the Government’s plans for a business payroll amnesty’.37 It seems they secured a commitment of sorts for an amnesty on payroll tax for businesses using employee contractors. A month later Burke and Grill invited a group of business owners to their small, cramped conference room to discuss a business proposal. Burke was ‘disarming and persuasive’, greeting each participant by name and showing detailed knowledge about each of their business operations. Older and heavier than most remembered him, Burke surprised them all by launching into ‘selling mode’. The deal he was proposing was straightforward: ‘. . . a joining fee of a few thousand dollars, to be negotiated with each business, and 12.5 per cent of their payroll tax debt as a success fee. The return? The chance to wipe out all or part of that debt.’38 Trading on their ability to keep in touch with Ripper’s office, and to keep their clients on side, Burke and Grill’s calculated gamble achieved apparent success when the government announced the recommended tax changes. The government scurried for cover when it realised that the pair had their fingerprints all over the changes. Ripper later told parliament that he had never met Burke to discuss the matter, and that the decision had flowed from consideration of a submission from the State Chamber of Commerce and Industry and accounting lobbyists CPA Australia.39 A few weeks after they claimed victory in the payroll tax deal Burke and Grill secured another high-profile client, the Western Australian Trotting Association. Their task this time was to convince the government to drop its plans to overhaul the billion-dollar racing industry. The arrangement was made public and received extensive media coverage, placing Gallop on the defensive against claims that the pair were influencing government policy. Burke and Grill were also hired by iron ore 212

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miner Portman Mining to challenge a ruling issued by the State Environmental Protection Authority protecting a unique species of flower thought to be under threat if Portman’s mining interests went ahead. Tony Barrass, who was close to events, wrote: In early 2000, a few months after the EPA decision, then environment minister Judy Edwards announced that she had overturned the authority’s findings and would allow the Portman expansion to go ahead. Portman’s shares rose 12 per cent on the news. Edwards, who has since left Cabinet, acknowledged that Burke and Grill had been lobbying her office but was adamant at the time that that they were not instrumental in securing the Portman deal.40 Burke was known to have met with Edwards’ chief of staff and a policy officer attached to her office prior to the decision being made, but how much can be drawn from such contact is difficult to ascertain. But, as one journalist commented, ‘The pair’s fingerprints are known to be on four ministerial offices and extending to a range of controversial decisions . . . before Government.’41 Burke had no compunction in working against the Labor government. In 2002 Western Power, the monopolistic provider of electricity in the state, retained Burke’s services. The organisation, fearful of the government’s policy to break it up, secretly channelled $35 000 of taxpayers’ money to the Australian Services Union, which then used it in an attempt to derail the government’s plans. Burke was seen to be the ‘mastermind’ of this unsuccessful campaign.42 In the lead-up to the 2004 state election, Burke and Grill took on a client that highlighted even more starkly their willingness to put business ahead of their strong personal connections to the Labor Party. An outlying Perth local council engaged Grill to embarrass the Labor government over its frustration with the lack of train services to the suburb. Demonstrating how befitting was their recently acquired nickname the Torvill and Dean of consulting, Burke also offered advice 213

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on this campaign.43 For Burke, in particular, with his senior factional role, his willingness to work against his own party laid bare the fierceness of his determination to succeed as a consultant. Burke celebrated his early successes with lunches at Perugino’s, one of Perth’s most fashionable eateries. These ‘de facto celebrations of Burke’s second coming’ doubled as opportunities for networking. One businessman who joined the celebrations later said, ‘It was pretty clear that we were all there being paraded after we’d got a result through employing Burke. It was, like, ‘‘look at me, I’m back.’’’44 With the press taunting the government over claims that Burke and Grill were ‘haunting’ Gallop, the premier was stung into action. In April 2003 he announced a ban on his ministers dealing with Burke and Grill. There are few, if any, precedents for such action. Critics went on the offensive. The West Australian editorialised that the ‘Burke-proofing’ attempt by the government was ‘naive and questionable on grounds of fairness’.45 It proved to be a bad call by the paper. Not only was the ‘old’ Burke back, he and Grill moved with devastating effect into the corporate world to enrich both themselves and their clients. Only months after Gallop’s ban was imposed, attorney-general Jim McGinty introduced legislation to create the Corruption and Crime Commission. He explained that the new body was needed to correct flaws in the existing Accountability and Corruption Commission by providing a suite of expanded powers, ‘powers to use assumed identities and surveillance devices; and powers to conduct covert activities’. With these powers the commission could target all public officers in the state.46 Lurking in the minds of both McGinty and Gallop was the uncomfortable thought that the new commission could ‘come back to bite the ALP’, but they also knew that the Corruption and Crime Commission might lay the trap that could catch Burke. While they had some understanding of his business activity, importantly they also knew his style and were all too aware that he maintained an active network in the party.47 The irony was that for all of Burke’s political nous, he failed to see that he now had to tread very carefully. 214

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CONSULTING OFFERED BURKE NEW opportunities to increase his wealth and power. He was ready-made to extract ‘insider’ deals as a lobbyist but the extent of his and Grill’s ability to perform this task was, and probably remains, unprecedented. With no regulations governing lobbyists in Western Australia or elsewhere in the country, Burke used his personality and skills to great effect in this shadowy world where influence can be traded as high-value currency. Potentially Burke had much to offer corporate clients. He had an extended network of contacts in government. Many of the people he had personally leap-frogged into senior positions in the bureaucracy were still there. Burke worked these contacts obsessively. He also retained the loyalty of a small band of supporters in key posts in the ALP, and he understood the machinery of government. Displaying a ruthless streak when developing strategies and a natural love of intrigue when executing them, his methods for achieving success were unconventional. Lobbyists trade on their insider knowledge of the labyrinth of government committees, regulations and their competing interests. Burke understood this world. He also knew that government decision-making 215

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was like grinding meat through a mincer: pressure could be applied to speed up or slow down the process. And Burke knew how to play off both sides on any issue. Importantly, as his business contacts extended into the rich resources and development industries, Burke was able to trade on the economic boom. His success says as much about why some corporations seek to circumvent due process as it does about Burke’s ability to facilitate this for them. Some executives in the corporate world are contemptuous of government regulation, describing it behind closed doors as ‘a pain in the arse’. These people courted Burke and Grill, seeing in them the type of operators who could circumvent ‘such bullshit’. In return, the pair offered the sophisticated political skills business leaders typically have little understanding of. In part, the Burke–Grill model relied on their ability to maintain a system of patronage inside the Labor Party, but it also took advantage of their ability to handle the media. Burke, in particular, continued to curry favour with selected journalists by leaking information to them from his knowledge of Cabinet discussions. Sunday Times political writer Joe Spagnolo gave a revealing description of Burke’s intimate networking of the media:

He suggested he could help me with stories and offered the names of two prominent Perth journalists . . . with whom he regularly did business . . . To demonstrate his prowess, Mr Burke brought up a story I had done on Liberal Party donations. He seemed to have inside knowledge of the story and intimated he had somehow played a part in it coming my way, saying that others would follow. Mr Burke was concerned how I would write about his involvement with the finance brokers campaign. He then pulled out a press release, suggesting it was the way he would like the story to run.1

Burke understood, too, how to use clever advertising techniques to his clients’ best advantage. But driving the Burke–Grill model was Burke’s 216

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talent for daring political strategy. He knew how to bring the various parts of a political problem together into a series of moves that usually involved placing maximum pressure or charm on individuals to do his bidding. The model proved to be a particularly attractive one. Despite the ban imposed by Gallop, companies continued to seek out the services of Burke and Grill. Backbenchers and selected ministers still dealt with them but if access on a particular matter proved difficult, a handful of lobbying firms were willing to act as subcontractors. Using this strategy, Burke could work on gaining access and no-one in government would be any the wiser that he was working behind the scenes. Burke and Grill were also particularly aggressive in poaching clients from other lobbying firms. In typical grandiose fashion, Burke harboured ambitions to dominate the lobbying industry in both Western Australia and the rest of the country. He went on several ‘road shows’ to various parts of Australia in the quest to secure clients. The ban on employing them hardly interrupted the attempted realisation of these dreams. As Burke’s and Grill’s reputation for clinching favourable deals grew so did their client list, which expanded to forty at its peak. Those mentioned in the Corruption and Crime Commission hearings included: property developers (Urban Pacific, Australand and Canal Rocks), mining companies (Fortescue Metals Group, Cazaly Resources, Precious Metals Australia and Kimberley Diamonds) and at least one prominent law firm. Some of the dealings involved legitimate lobbying activities and it is not clear how much individual companies knew about the questionable methods employed by Burke and Grill on some projects. David Cecchele, executive director of property developer Urban Pacific, chose his words carefully when explaining why he enlisted Burke and Grill instead of a rival consultant on a potentially controversial development: ‘The other consultant took a view that we should deal with the potential objection for mining at a Cabinet level and a political level, whereas Mr Grill and Mr Burke suggested that it should be dealt with at the grassroots level from the department.’2 Whether or not Grill and Burke told 217

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their client that they had an old mate in the relevant department who would stitch up an endorsement is not clear. The head of the Department of Industry and Resources, Gary Stokes, was a friend and former adviser to Grill and conversations taped by the Corruption and Crime Commission were reported in the media with the inference that Stokes was servicing Burke and Grill’s business interests. As journalists Tony Barrass and Amanda O’Brien wrote of the Urban Pacific evidence before the commission: Mr Stokes was heard telling Mr Grill he could ‘close a chapter on your Urban Pacific dealings’ because the department would withdraw its objections to the company’s application to rezone the land . . . for urban development. ‘Oh brilliant. Brilliant, Gary. Brilliant’, Mr Grill replies. Mr Stokes then laughs as he says: ‘There was a lot of opposition, there’ll be some pissed off people, but you know sometimes you got to lose to win’. The following month, after a request from Mr Burke, Mr Stokes gave him a confidential letter outlining the department’s position on the issue, including commercially sensitive information, and tells him to treat it as confidential. Mr Burke then forwards it to Urban Pacific’s project manager, David Cecchele, telling him to keep it secret: ‘you must, must protect me on it because otherwise my source will get sacked’, Mr Burke says.3 Cecchele was not the only corporate head to receive briefings on Cabinet positions from Burke. The director of IMF Australia was told by Burke what occurred in Cabinet on the day it happened.4 And the head of Cazaly Resources was also well briefed. But how common was this knowledge of Burke’s and Grill’s tactics? And were such tactics encouraged? The indications suggest that some members of corporate Australia were willing partners in this assault on democracy. In fact, David Cecchele had the following exchange with the commission about gaining access to confidential information provided by Burke: 218

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COMMISSION: . . . you had been told by Mr Burke that this sort of correspondence is ‘really very confidential’? CECCHELE: Yes. COMMISSION: Did it not concern you that you would be instructing your consultant to try and obtain a letter that ought not have been divulged to him? CECCHELE: At that time it didn’t really come to mind . . . COMMISSION: . . . did you expect them to be able to get information where other consultants might not? CECCHELE: Yes. COMMISSION: Is that because of their contacts in government? CECCHELE: Yes.5 Burke and Grill’s business was booming when Geoff Gallop resigned in January 2006 suffering from depression. His replacement, Alan Carpenter, lifted the ban on government ministers dealing with the pair. In what he would soon have to concede was an error of judgement, Carpenter rationalised the decision on the basis that it was time the Labor Party moved on from the shadow of Burke. It proved a fateful decision, sending a ‘signal to the top end of town that big business could engage the pair’.6 Lifting the ban also paved the way for Burke loyalist Norm Marlborough to enter Cabinet, a move which Gallop had also previously blocked. As soon as his appointment was announced, Marlborough declared in the press that Burke was a genius. Henceforth the Labor Party became an extension of Burke and Grill’s burgeoning business interests. Equally useful was the personal rapport Burke enjoyed with selected senior bureaucrats, some of whom it was alleged were prepared to do deals with him. Together, these contacts placed Burke and Grill in a unique position of influence. According to public affairs commentator Joseph Poprzeczny, a long-time critic of Burke, Burke and Grill were operating in what amounted to ‘a shadow government’.7 Burke boasted about his capacity to influence Cabinet ministers, saying 219

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at one point he had a minister’s ‘pants off him and fucken working on his shirt and he doesn’t even fucken know’.8 As Stephen Hall, lawyer for the Corruption and Crime Commission, later argued, improperly disclosed Cabinet discussions conferred ‘an unfair advantage over others in the community or over the government itself ’.9 Grill later boasted about the power he and Burke wielded, saying they had kept a list of their victories over the Gallop and Carpenter governments. Neither would ‘want to see the perception that someone else was running the Government’.10 Clearly an overstatement, there is nonetheless a degree of truth in his assertion. A significant Cabinet contact was John Bowler, whose portfolio responsibilities for resources and state development made him highly desirable to Burke and Grill with their many clients in the mining industry. Bowler inherited Grill’s seat in parliament, he socialised with the pair regularly and some of his senior staff were said to be on very good terms with Burke.11 Bowler looked to Burke for political advice and for help in running his election campaigns. Burke was ‘very forthcoming’ in offering such assistance.12 Bowler made 109 telephone calls to Burke or Grill while he was a minister and Grill was recorded by the Corruption and Crime Commission asking his old friend, ‘So, how’d Cabinet go?’13 Bowler gave approval for a number of multimillion-dollar projects to companies employing Burke and Grill. On one occasion he allegedly directed his department to withdraw its objections to a land development project in the Perth Hills which was being undertaken by Urban Pacific, a wholly owned subsidiary of Macquarie Bank which had taken on Burke and Grill as its lobbyists.14 On another occasion he leaked a sensitive parliamentary standing committee draft report on the closure of a vanadium mine to Grill, who was acting for Precious Metals Australia (PMA) in a dispute with its partner, Xstrata Mining. Grill suggested some changes which were critical of Xstrata and these found their way into the final report. After the report was released Xstrata agreed to pay PMA $10 million to settle the dispute.15 Burke and Grill were reported to have received $1 million each as part of their success fee as well as a grateful note from PMA’s managing director, who wrote how ‘comforted he was 220

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by having two such talented people’ on board.16 When exposed for his part in the process, a tearful John Bowler confessed to parliament that he had been ‘duped’ by allowing himself to be used for ‘the personal gain of others’. He explained his naive belief in loyalty but was now ‘forced to wonder if a true friend would use another in the way I feel now’.17 Norm Marlborough continued in his role as hapless loyalist for Burke, unable to resist his friend’s manipulation of their relationship. Burke arranged for Marlborough to have a mobile phone for exclusive, and clandestine, communication with him and then explained the arrangement to Marlborough as if speaking to a child: BURKE: . . . that phone goes everywhere with you okay? MARLBOROUGH: Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. BURKE: Mate, please don’t, don’t forget and ring me up on the other phone. They’ll get thingamajig and they’ll see twenty calls to me in a, in two days . . . and they’ll have it all over the papers . . . MARLBOROUGH: So is it working. BURKE: And don’t tell anyone else the number . . . If you’re pushed for time or anything, don’t say I’ve got this phone . . . You don’t need anyone else to know you’ve got this phone, mate.18 Burke knew the risks he was asking his friend to take. And he was prepared to deceive his business partner about the existence of the secret phone connection to Marlborough: ‘You shouldn’t have said anything about a phone to Julian.’19 He did not need to explain the rest—Burke intended the phone to symbolise the exclusivity of their relationship. Just how great a danger Burke was placing Marlborough in emerged in a quip the two shared. At one point Burke boasted, ‘I’m a fucking handful aren’t I,’ to which Marlborough whispered back, ‘You’re going to have me shot, you know.’20 When Burke wanted local identity Beryle Morgan appointed to the South West Development Board he called in a longstanding favour from his friend, now minister for Small Business and the South-west: 221

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BURKE: Mate, the other thing is you’re not going to let me down on Beryle are ya? MARLBOROUGH: No. No. Who’s Beryle? The girl from, uh, Busselton? BURKE: Yeah. MARLBOROUGH: No, of course I’m not. BURKE: Mate, that, that’s just so. MARLBOROUGH: Although I’ve got Peter Clough on my, on, on my tail. He wants another person appointed. BURKE: Yeah. Well, mate, oh, Peter Clough, he was the bloke sitting next to me when I was organising your campaign. MARLBOROUGH: Yeah (laughs). BURKE: Is that, is that the Clough. MARLBOROUGH: That’s the one . . . BURKE: Yeah. What did he actually do in your campaign again? MARLBOROUGH: Mate, I don’t know. I haven’t fuckin’ rung him back. Don’t worry. BURKE: No. Oh, mate, no, sorry. MARLBOROUGH: He rang me two days ago. BURKE: No. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. He was the bloke sitting in the other seat in 1976 when we went up to fuckin’, to Wickham. MARLBOROUGH: (laughs) Yeah, that’s right. Yeah. BURKE: Well, mate, it . . . MARLBOROUGH: No, no, no. That’ll be fine Brian. BURKE: Mate, it’s just important to me.21 While Marlborough told Burke that it was a done deal, the appointment was not made and Marlborough claims he never had any intention of doing so.22 Burke and Marlborough would later assert this indicated there was no wrongdoing on their part. While this may show shortcomings in the process of intelligence gathering on the part of the Corruption and Crime Commission, there is no mistaking the methods used by Burke on this occasion: he clearly thought Marlborough owed 222

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him a favour. As Premier Alan Carpenter later explained, Burke knew the processes and ‘he was trying to manipulate Norm Marlborough to bring about an outcome, which was in his . . . commercial interests in the long run’.23 At times, Burke’s manipulative actions could be the equivalent of a full-arm twist executed behind the back as his old friend Syd Shea, whom Burke had appointed to head up the Department of Conservation and Land Management in the mid 1980s, found out: BURKE: Well mate . . . you wouldn’t know this but I’m not a fucken good enemy to have, and I don’t appreciate it if people aren’t up front with me, all he needs to say is Brian, I don’t want to talk to you because of this reason or that reason, or you’re fat and bald, and that’s good enough for me. SHEA: . . . this guy . . . he saved me so many times you wouldn’t bloody count. BURKE: Well not only that mate, I didn’t fucken, I didn’t miss helping him myself when he needed a hand, did I? SHEA: Yeah no no alright, no. BURKE: When you need, when you wanted him promoted and there was no fucken basis for the promotion. SHEA: Yes I know, I know.24 Environment Minister Tony McRae also became entangled in Burke’s web of power and influence. In evidence to the commission, McRae acknowledged that Grill had helped him with his elevation to the ministry as well as raising funds for his election campaign. He acknowledged, too, that Burke and Grill met with his chief of staff. McRae would later reject the suggestion that he was in debt to the pair. Yet, for their part, Burke and Grill operated as if a debt had been incurred. A taped telephone call revealed McRae rang Grill to thank him for his support in his promotion to Cabinet. In another call Grill rang one of his clients about the influence he felt he had with the minister: ‘. . . I mean we 223

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wouldn’t use anything against Tony [McRae] but . . . [he] owes us and we’re not asking for a lot.’25 McRae’s denials that he had been subject to influence is not the pertinent point: the system in which Burke and Grill operated made ministers like him vulnerable. Burke had an obsessive need to control all aspects of the careers of those he believed were in his personal orbit. Labor MLC Adele Farina, for example, earned an angry outburst from Burke when she applied for a vacant parliamentary secretary’s position without seeking his prior approval. As she explained to the commission: ‘I received a phone call from Brian who was very indignant and annoyed with me that I would nominate for the position without seeking his consent . . . I expressed the view that it wasn’t normal for lay faction powerbrokers to get involved in caucus elections . . . He got very angry and told me I had to withdraw.’26 As the examples of McRae and Farina illustrate, the influence Burke and Grill exercised over the Labor Party machinery could be insidious. Their capacity to fundraise of behalf of members of parliament further increased this influence. Many politicians are either squeamish about direct involvement in raising funds for elections, or lack the networks in the corporate world to do so. Burke and Grill were not saddled with either handicap. They sold their expertise as party fundraisers to clients as just another business cost. Grill explained to one client: ‘So Brian and I are going to organise a fund raiser for her [a member of parliament] where she’ll get $25,000 for her campaign. Now that’s all part and parcel of putting in the building blocks to ensure that you are successful.’27

So grandiose was Burke’s belief in his power to control the state Labor Party that he promoted the idea of his Dream Team of young aspiring candidates to take Labor into the future. Some fell for the idea, aware, no doubt, that Burke still possessed influence in the party. On one occasion, at least, he held out the incentive of joining his Dream Team 224

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to a young Labor hopeful working as a ministerial staffer while at the same time requesting this person forward sensitive government documents to Burke about the multimillion-dollar pearling industry.28 Burke moved to extend his authority in the Labor Party from the state to the national stage. The vehicle was his unrivalled capacity for fundraising and networking. He took a special interest in Bill Shorten, head of the right-wing Australian Workers Union and aspiring federal Labor candidate. Burke had met Shorten many years earlier and liked him. He organised at least one function for Shorten in which he brought together senior figures from the media and the Western Australian state and federal Labor Party. Held at Perugino’s, Burke’s favourite restaurant, Shorten flew in especially for the occasion ‘to meet, greet and eat with the group of journos as part of a campaign to lift the union man’s profile’.29 Burke raised $20 000 for Shorten’s November 2007 election bid, money that was subsequently returned by him. Burke was also reported to have offered Shorten policy advice and help with speeches, and was even said to be a key backer in Shorten’s long-term ambition to be a future Labor prime minister. Once the extent of this support became public, this was taken as confirmation that Burke’s ‘rehabilitation . . . inside the ALP has been so successful that he is once again regarded as one of its most influential figures’.30 Reports like the following one from the Australian that aspiring Labor leader Kevin Rudd had courted Burke’s support further confirmed his role as national ALP powerbroker: ‘Beside Mr Shorten, Labor foreign affairs spokesman Kevin Rudd is also known to have sought his counsel, even travelling to Perth to see Mr Burke on several occasions. Mr Rudd is expected to vie for Mr Burke’s approval and run for the federal leadership if Labor loses next year’s federal election.’31 Rudd was forced to disclose the extent of his dealings with Burke when, in March 2007 and at the height of the sordid revelations from the Corruption and Crime Commission, it was revealed that Labor’s newly installed leader had attended a dinner hosted by Burke on 1 August 2005 when he was Opposition spokesman on foreign affairs. 225

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Differing recollections of the dinner at Perugino’s restaurant would snare Rudd in his first real test as leader. Rudd claimed he was invited to the dinner by his friend, Burke loyalist Graham Edwards, and was unaware he was to be the star turn at the event. Whether or not this was the case, the event had all of Burke’s hallmarks. He had sent out an email to his corporate clients inviting them to a dinner to hear Rudd speak.32 Three of the business clients who turned up confirmed ‘they had been told by Mr Burke that it was a private dinner specially to introduce Mr Rudd’.33 Unleashing one of his charm offensives, Burke introduced Rudd as a rising star in the Labor Party and predicted he would become the next prime minister. Rudd would later have to fend off attacks that he had been opportunistic in attending the dinner on the basis that he was attempting to use Burke’s influence in the ALP to further his own ambitions.34 But equally the dinner displays Burke’s own opportunism. In demonstrating to Rudd that he could pull a corporate crowd, he was signalling his ongoing ambition to enlarge his role as a party powerbroker. His old mate, union leader Kevin Reynolds, used the occasion to emphasise that Burke ‘was no longer a pariah’.35 Amid the dim lighting and soft furnishings of Perugino’s, the Rudd dinner provided a small window into the nature of power in modern Australia—the subtly played connections between the business community, influential interest groups and political parties. Burke knew how these connections worked as intimately as the menu of his favourite restaurant. As the encounters with Shorten and Rudd demonstrate Burke had, by 2005, re-emerged as a figure to be reckoned with. In addition to his highlevel Labor contacts, he did not shy away from telling those closest to him that he had significant sway over senior bureaucrats and ministerial advisers. He boasted that he could ‘get anything I want off about five different ministerial officers’.36 Among those Burke thought were key supporters was the head of the Environmental Protection Authority, Dr Wally Cox. When Cox wanted to shift to being part-time head of the agency, Grill expressed his disappointment at his decision: ‘Yeah, well Brian and I are very keen to see you carry on there, of course we think 226

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you’re the best (pause) person in that position for a long time. Ah, and we’ve been, you know, just pulling a few strings where we can.’37 Burke also boasted about how much the pair had helped Cox. He told one unidentified caller that Cox had wanted to go part-time; he had thought about leaving and working with him and Grill. But, as Burke explained, he intervened and ‘with a bit of quick footwork, they’ve kept him on as part-time Chairman’.38 As the example of Cox illustrates, Burke and Grill dealt with public servants as if they were owed favours by them. Others felt intimidated. One ministerial chief of staff said: ‘I always had concern that contact with Mr Burke put me in jeopardy and I felt that he always spoke to me in a way that indicated he felt I was subservient to him. I did always feel that being on the wrong side of him would not be a good thing.’39 High-level contacts were not the only reason for Burke and Grill’s success as corporate consultants. Burke had lost none of the cunning for political strategy that he had demonstrated in his days as premier, forming a periodic business alliance, for example, with Noel CrichtonBrown to lobby the Liberals. As Crichton-Brown later sheepishly told the Corruption and Crime Commission: ‘I think the occasions when I’m used is when they’re [Burke and Grill] unable to achieve their own objectives and they think there might be something that I can do that they can’t—and I suspect that relates more to what I might describe as perhaps my ex-side of politics.’40 Representing IMF, a company working for victims of a collapsed finance broker, Burke paid Crichton-Brown $2000 per month ‘to infiltrate the Liberals and get Opposition MPs to make speeches to parliament on behalf of [Burke’s] client’.41 Burke could not contain his glee at the success of the strategy when he rang his friend, Norm Marlborough: ‘Mate, they’re all fucking idiots [the Liberal Party], but they’re saying the right lines, have you noticed?’42 The quote is noteworthy because it reveals that Burke exercised more influence in the Liberal Party than is commonly understood. He had been friends with Noel Crichton-Brown for many years and the former senator was known to 227

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be a force within the Western Australian Liberal Party. Acting together, as they did on the finance broker scandal, they could determine Liberal Party policy. But it was not all bravado on Burke’s part. The tragic plight of the victims touched him and he showed a rare glimpse of compassion, telling Norm Marlborough: ‘Mate, these poor old bastards, they’re all fucken dying, they’re crying, they’re ringing me up, it’s fucken terrible.’ However, there was nothing subtle about Burke’s solution to their woes. He told Norm, ‘Now mate, I want you to get this over the line for us.’43 Burke showed he had lost none of his instincts for manipulating the media and leaking information in ways that would advantage him. It is in this context that Sunday Times journalist Joe Spagnolo explained: Mr Burke was concerned how I would write about his involvement with the finance brokers’ campaign. He then pulled out a press release, suggesting it was the way he would like the story to run . . . Depending on what decisions I made about the way I would write the story, he said, he, myself and Mr Grill would have lunch the following week.44 Concerns about media leaks had been raised in Cabinet, so Burke contrived an explanation for Marlborough to scotch any rumours that he was the source of the leaks: ‘Now you can say to him [the journalist] that Brian’s a lot smarter than that. He doesn’t talk to the press.’45 Burke and Grill’s capacity for devising calculated insider strategies was no better demonstrated than by their involvement in the controversial Smiths Beach development in the south-west of the state, a region known around the world for its wine, sparkling beaches, surf and stunning coastal scenery. Local real estate agent David McKenzie was so sure of the region’s tourism potential that in 2001 he proposed a $350-million development at Smiths Beach consisting of 230 houses, 360 tourist units and over 100 hotel rooms through his company, Canal Rocks. Locals rallied against the proposal and secured bipartisan opposition to its construction, including from Geoff Gallop, in the lead-up to the 2001 election. 228

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Although he withdrew his original proposal, McKenzie did not give up hope that a similar development would eventually be approved by the local council. In 2003 he turned to Burke and Grill to enhance his prospects. They approached the task with military efficiency: they worked contacts in the public service, pushed the boundaries of accepted practice and bullied selected individuals along the way. In his evidence to the Corruption and Crime Commission, McKenzie admitted he knew that Noel Crichton-Brown would be hired to lobby the Liberal Party and that Burke had proposed a controversial strategy to secure the election of a group of candidates in the council elections due in May 2005 who would be favourable to the development. McKenzie explained: ‘We had firmly formed the opinion towards the end of 2004 that the current councillors were diametrically opposed to virtually anything that was being put forward to them and therefore we felt a change in councillors would be one way of trying to get a fair hearing.’46 He went on: ‘We would seek through people we knew down there anyone who would be prepared to consider running for council and offer them some form of support.’47 However, the problem quickly became how to offer support to potential candidates without inflaming the already considerable local opposition to the Smiths Beach proposal. Canal Rocks could not be the source of funding. As became clear under questioning by the commission’s lawyer Stephen Hall, Burke came up with the idea to use a front organisation that would siphon money to candidates: MCKENZIE: Brian told me that funding could be made available via Independent Action Group [IAG] . . . he explained to me . . . that [IAG] was the organisation that had been used in the retail trading hours referendum . . . HALL: What did any of that have to do with Canal Rocks? MCKENZIE: Not a great deal. HALL: Did Canal Rocks have any interest at all in the deregulation of trading hours? MCKENZIE: None.48 229

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According to McKenzie, Burke suggested that Canal Rocks fund IAG. He advised also that secrecy be strictly maintained. Candidates selected were not to be told that the source of their funding was Canal Rocks, so that when they went to declare their interests at the declaration of the poll no-one would be any wiser. McKenzie sought legal advice on the appropriateness of using IAG as a front and was reportedly told that, ‘If you make donations to a group, the Independent Action Group, and whoever donates that money remains anonymous to the candidates, then the Independent Action Group is a legal vehicle for funding to candidates.’49 Legal or not, it was typical Burke subterfuge. As Stephen Hall pointedly asked of McKenzie,‘What was to stop you knocking on their doors and saying after the election, ‘‘I contributed to your successful campaign?’’ ’ With a straight bat, McKenzie replied, ‘That wasn’t our philosophy.’50 In fact Burke went so far as to tell at least one of the candidates that the funding had nothing to do with Smiths Beach.51 Burke also lobbied contacts in the departments of Environment and Conservation, Planning and Infrastructure as well as the Environmental Protection Authority. Some were regarded by Burke as loyalists, but all later sought to distance themselves from any suggestion that they were acting in Burke and Grill’s commercial interests. Whether or not this was the case, Burke approached such people as if they were prepared to do his bidding and he was orchestrating government to make a decision on the project. He told McKenzie that Mark Brabazon, a senior executive at the Department of Environment and Conservation, was ‘an appointee of mine’.52 Mike Allen, a senior officer with the Department of Planning and Infrastructure, was described by Burke as being ‘on side’, while he thought that the acting head of the Planning Department was a key supporter: ‘When [Paul] Frewer was there I didn’t need to have to worry because he put the backbone into what was needed.’53 Meanwhile Grill was ingratiating himself with Wally Cox, the head of the EPA, who seemed to indicate he was aware of the inappropriateness of meeting with the pair while the issue of Smiths Beach was still under consideration by his agency: 230

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GRILL: Brian and I would like to take you to lunch just to talk about, uh, perhaps, uh, organisation of the environment portfolio and perhaps bring you up to date with Smiths Beach and down at the Parmelia perhaps? Do you like the food down there or? COX: No, uh, we better, um, disappear a little further away into West Perth . . . GRILL: All right . . . let’s get the back room at Perugino’s.54 The three dined at Burke and Grill’s favourite restaurant. Later on, each of the public servants caught up in the public hearings on Smiths Beach challenged the findings of misconduct made by the Corruption and Crime Commission that they improperly assisted Burke and Grill. Their claims have been upheld by several independent public sector inquiries, including two by the parliamentary inspector Malcolm McCusker, whose job it is to oversee the commission. In his reports McCusker accused the Corruption and Crime Commission of ‘failing to interview key witnesses, relying on hearsay, failing to mention evidence and making findings not supported by the evidence’.55 In turn, the commission has defended its findings. At the time of writing the stand-off between the two agencies was unresolved. Norm Marlborough, who had no ministerial responsibilities for the issue, conveyed a message to a senior executive in the Department of Environment that the department was being harsh in its analysis of the project and should be more constructive. His interference was more personal than political. It amounted to him saying that the developers ‘weren’t bad guys’ and ‘help them on their way’.56 This was likely done at the instigation of Burke. Burke was also furiously lobbying to have a local officer in the department, Peter Hanly, removed from working on the project because he had produced adverse soil test results. Burke complained to the senior echelons in the department that Hanly was biased against the project. Hanly protested that he was merely following established procedures.57 Burke sent emails critical of Hanly to the department.58 231

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Burke also applied pressure inside the Labor Party for a green light to be given to the development. The local member for Busselton, Adele Farina, alleged that Burke tried to ‘blackmail’ her, threatening her chances of preselection if she didn’t advance the interests of his client. In her evidence to the Corruption and Crime Commission Farina explained that: ‘Between about 2002 and 2004, on a number of occasions . . . Brian made it clear to me that I no longer held the favour of the Right (faction) and, more particularly, his favour because I hadn’t always been helpful and that my pre-selection was at risk as a result of that. Smiths Beach was particularly one of them where he felt that . . . I hadn’t actually advocated or advanced the interest of his client, the developer.’59 Farina described a meeting at Burke’s home where he told her that she was ‘aggressive and that men don’t like aggressive women. He said that any future ambition that I had in the party and in terms of preselection was largely reliant on him.’ Burke then taunted Farina by challenging her to acknowledge he was a master of his skills. She became progressively more upset as the conversation continued with Burke challenging her: ‘I don’t know what your view of me is. You probably think I’m manipulative but, you know, I don’t know.’60 What would have happened to the Smiths Beach project had events run their course is not clear because, unbeknown to Burke and Grill, members of the Smiths Beach Action Group, concerned over the irregularities of the 2005 Shire of Busselton election, wrote to the Corruption and Crime Commission. Their complaint sparked the undercover investigation into the pair’s activities. While Burke and Grill were involved in the Smiths Beach development, they were also undertaking ‘insider’ deal-making through work they undertook for Cazaly Resources Limited and Echelon Resources Limited. Echelon was a minor shareholder in Cazaly’s and a partner in the project for which Burke and Grill were hired. Cazaly’s general manager, Nathan McMahon, engaged Burke and Grill when Minister for Resources John Bowler turned down the company’s application to mine a potentially lucrative iron ore tenement 232

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near Mt Newman known as ‘Shovelanna’. The rights to mine were handed to mining giant Rio Tinto, whose management had no immediate plans to develop the site. McMahon began legal proceedings to have the decision overturned, but Burke and Grill proposed a high-stakes game to intimidate Rio Tinto into settling the dispute out of court. Burke decided to lobby the parliamentary Standing Committee on Estimates and Financial Operation (SCEFO), on which key loyalist Shelley Archer sat, to push for a full inquiry into the government’s iron ore policy, namely the practice of allowing large iron ore companies to lock away thousands of hectares of land without having immediate plans for development. It may have been an issue worthy of serious review, but not in the manner proposed by Burke and Grill. Once again they hired Noel Crichton-Brown to lobby the Liberals. The pair’s main purpose in pursuing the establishment of an inquiry was to get Rio Tinto to the negotiation table with Cazaly. The tactic was brutal and designed to force the hands of both the government and Rio Tinto because neither would want to suffer the embarrassment of having to publicly defend the policy. In secretly taped Corruption and Crime Commission conversations, Burke explains the strategy to a team of directors from Cazaly: ‘The more we wind it up, provided it is done rationally, the more he [ John Bowler] will fear the delivery of the threat [setting up the inquiry]. But we have to accept that Rio also needs to be in on the game. So we need Sam Walsh [the chief executive officer] and others to fear being called into court.’ Burke even rehearsed how the threat might be delivered to Walsh: ‘Oh, by the way, did you hear there’s gunna be a parliamentary committee, Sam? You’ll be called to give evidence about your attitude to maintaining vast areas of the State’s sterilized . . . [from] exploitation. Mate, we’ll work out a way to do that . . .’61 Burke and Grill stood to gain significant riches for themselves if they succeeded in intimidating Rio Tinto. The pair had been purchasing shares in both Cazaly and Echelon and monitoring their share prices. Anticipating a significant leap in Cazaly’s share price, they negotiated a payment with McMahon of 100 000 fully paid-up Cazaly shares if they 233

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succeeded before Christmas 2006. In a telephone conversation with Grill, Burke drooled at the prospects: ‘Mate, when this thing comes off, when Cazaly gets this thing, Echelon will be a dollar forty. So that will be another sixty-five grand on top of our fee. Each.’62 Contacts on both sides of SCEFO were lobbied but efforts were concentrated on two committee members: Archer and Liberal Anthony Fels. Secrecy was paramount. Neither Archer nor Fels were told anything about the Shovelanna case, just that there was sufficient grounds for an inquiry.63 At a team strategy meeting one of Cazaly’s directors wondered whether to formalise the relationship with Archer: ‘Maybe you can deputise her on our committee.’64 Drawing on conversations taped by the Corruption and Crime Commission, Archer was found by the Western Australian parliamentary inquiry to have leaked information about SCEFO deliberations which Burke then passed on to the team of directors.65 The entire operation as conceived by Burke, and authorised by McMahon, was underpinned by questionable practice. But none of this troubled Burke. He rationalised his actions as if he were leading a moral crusade. At a strategy meeting held at Grill’s house, he again dug deep into his old Marist Brothers education: ‘. . . these big corporations all work, mostly, on being absolutely bloody immoral robbers. But, publicly having this corporate citizenship image.’66 Burke’s plan to use parliament to force a settlement for Cazaly came to an abrupt end in December 2006 when it became publicly known that he and Grill were caught up in the Corruption and Crime Commission’s investigation into Smiths Beach. The ruse that they were operating in a legitimate manner for Cazaly could no longer be maintained. The agency that brought a stop to the pair’s activities had been faced with its own first test of its credibility. The clandestine operation to gather information on Burke and Grill could have been a script from a television spy series. While the commission does not reveal details of its covert operations, it is thought that a team of security experts staked out both Burke and Grill’s residences. (There is some suggestion that this may have included assistance from 234

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ASIO.) The surveillance may have involved watching both men and logging their movements for up to a fortnight. When both were known to be out, their homes could have been broken into, the security alarms disabled and listening devices installed. The location of bugs is difficult to detect because they can be fitted to anything with an electrical current, including the hundreds of metres of wiring found in most houses. The material gathered was sent to the commission’s investigative team, headed by Kevin Hammond. He knew Burke’s style well, having presided over his travel rorts trial in the mid 1990s and subsequent jailing. Having built the commission up from scratch with little more than ‘a shiny new piece of legislation’,67 Hammond oversaw a mammoth operation, reconstructing Burke and Grill’s lobbying operation conversation by conversation. As all this was happening, Burke had been working behind the scenes on his long-held dream of creating a family dynasty. For several years the grooming of the next generation of Burke leaders had been going on in earnest. It was first reported in 1999 that Brian’s daughter, Sarah, and Terry’s daughter, Samantha, had political ambitions. Both were serving political apprenticeships in the Shop, Distributive and Allied Employees Association, the same union that had nursed Brian’s career. A few years later Sarah emerged as a powerful figure in the party, having been elected to Labor’s National Executive with designs on securing the party’s state presidency.68 She had a legal background and was regarded as ‘a serious young talent’,69 but her name ensured that she would be a polarising figure, not that she felt hampered by this. In a rare interview in November 2005 Ms Burke said, ‘I have nothing but pride and admiration for Dad. I am Sarah Burke and I am Brian Burke’s daughter.’70 She was also being touted as a possible replacement for Burke loyalist Graham Edwards in his federal seat of Cowan. For Burke, his daughter’s successes must have felt like a vindication of his struggles to remake himself as a serious powerbroker. The influence of the next generation of the family seemed assured. Complementing Burke’s run of good fortune in his consultancy 235

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business was the rising profitability of his burgeoning property and share portfolio. In 2004 his private companies, Abbey Lea Pty Ltd and Killiney Pty Ltd, together owned fifteen properties worth an estimated $6.5 million. Most were near his home suburb of Trigg in Perth’s nouveau riche northern beaches. His holdings were likened to a mini empire: the street in which he lived was almost a compound, with the main house being surrounded by houses purchased by other members of his family. Like his political comeback, Burke had enhanced his personal circumstances in stunning fashion.71 He must have felt moments when the ghosts of his Irish-Catholic roots were close to being laid to rest. Then, at the end of 2006, the reputation that he had struggled to build since coming out of prison a decade earlier came crashing down. In November he resigned from the Labor Party. He may as well have been kicked out because that was the mood of the majority of the party. The ignominy was complete. The man who had started his journey to rescue the name of his father ended up suffering a similar fate, although in vastly different circumstances. Burke was hauled into the Corruption and Crime Commission to explain his lobbying activities. The hearings would expose, like no other official inquiry ever has, the inner workings of a ruthlessly effective lobbying business. Burke was thrust back into the public spotlight. Heavy-set with an impenetrably expressionless face, his notoriety firmed with his regular appearances before the commission. Sporting a panama hat and dark glasses, he revealed barely a hint of the pressure he was now under. Only once did the edifice crack. On 4 December 2006 Burke, accompanied as always by his wife Sue, arrived at the commission for another round of hearings. Sue was nearly trampled underfoot by a media scrum. Brian had to extricate her, bringing him momentarily close to the waiting pack who surrounded him firing eager questions. It was an undignified entry. Burke propelled himself inside the building, but hardly to safety. Presiding over the proceedings was the ‘stern, imposing and pokerfaced’ figure of Kevin Hammond,72 supported by commission lawyer 236

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Stephen Hall. Burke had faced the likes of both men many times before. His opening session was vintage Burke. After almost five hours of gruelling interrogation, he yielded almost nothing. A journalist covering the drama recalled Burke’s stonewalling: ‘Every contradiction, every apparent deception, every inference of undue influence suggested by Mr Hall, or shown up by almost 40 bugged phone calls and emails, was shrugged off. He couldn’t recall, he didn’t know or it simply didn’t mean what the CCC was suggesting.’73 His was a well-practised art. After months of evidence, public expectations were running high in the lead-up to the release of the commission’s first report in October 2007. It turned out to be something of a public relations fizzer. In its consideration of the Smiths Beach matter, the commission made no adverse findings against either Burke or Grill. It did recommend disciplinary charges against three senior public servants (Allen, Cox and Frewer) with whom Burke and Grill had had extensive dealings over the development, and also made adverse findings against Norm Marlborough and three Busselton Shire councillors. Burke and Grill were widely perceived as having been cleared by the commission.74 Yet this conclusion is the result of only a partial reading of the commission’s powers and findings. Acknowledging its limited mandate over non-public officers, the commission chose to confine its comments simply ‘to the facts concerning their [Burke’s and Grill’s] actions’ while foreshadowing they may be part of further reports dealing with the prevention of corruption.75 Nevertheless the commission found the actions of the public servants it named, along with Marlborough, ‘resulted from the requests or influence of Mr Burke’.76 More broadly, the commission criticised the ways in which Burke and Grill had undermined the public interest: The Smiths Beach investigation has demonstrated how relationships between the private and public sectors can be used and abused by vested interests. The conduct of State and local government officers, developers, and professional lobbyists involved in the multi-million dollar development has illustrated the corrosive effect of unrestrained 237

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and unregulated vested interests on public officers and public interests.77 Burke and Grill went on the offensive after the publication of the report, telling the media they had endured ‘enormous scrutiny, loss of privacy, huge financial expense and great stress to their families, only to be cleared of any wrongdoing’.78 Burke vigorously rejected the adverse findings against the public servants named and Norm Marlborough. He highlighted what he saw as a flaw in the commission’s reasoning as he explained: ‘Merely because Mr Burke requests a person to do X, which itself is not inherently wrong or unlawful, does not make Mr Burke responsible from any impropriety that may arise in doing X. It also does not make X an improper act merely because Mr Burke has requested it.’79 This line of reasoning is eerily reminiscent of his defence of his role in WA Inc. Burke and Grill paid a high personal price for the way in which they conducted their lobbying business. Like dangerous fifth columnists, they appear to have been under permanent watch. As Burke has explained: ‘I’ve resigned myself to being under permanent surveillance.’ While he seemed resilient enough, ‘as far as the family is concerned, [I’m] very upset for them and very conscious of the difficulty of leading a normal life.’80 Burke likened his experience to being in Russia just after the fall of communism: ‘One of the things that really impressed me was the way people were frightened to go about their normal daily business and that was a result of the way in which the authorities in Russia had intruded into the details of almost everybody’s life.’81 Grill also has identified with the totalitarian parallels of his predicament. He has spoken of his inability to be intimate with his wife because of the discomfort of knowing the walls may be listening. Grill explained that his wife had written to the commission asking for the listening devices to be removed and they ‘just wrote back saying they would not confirm or deny that they had been removed’.82 As Burke and Grill struggled to come to terms with a life under sur238

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veillance, their old friend Norm Marlborough was engaged in a struggle of an even more intensely private kind. Having resigned from parliament in disgrace once his slavish relationship with Burke had been exposed in the Corruption and Crime Commission, Marlborough fell into a deep depression and flirted with the idea of killing himself. Three times he went to a bridge with the intention of jumping off. Each time he stood there, ‘looking at the water and imagining what his crumpled body would look like after it smashed against the concrete below’.83 Each time he was dragged back from the brink by the emotional pull of his family. He told the Sunday Times that psychiatric help and anti-depressants had helped lift the emotional fog that had enveloped his life. He realised that he had to take responsibility for his own actions but did not blame Burke for his demise. ‘I still love Brian like a brother.’84 Marlborough is not the only Burke loyalist to have been damaged by their association with him, although few appear to be as forgiving as Marlborough. Burke and Grill did not have many sympathisers outside their tight, but shrinking, circle. However, this did not stop them continuing their media offensive. Burke appeared on Geoff Hutchinson’s morning ABC Perth radio program. Hutchinson put it to Burke that Smiths Beach boiled down to ‘A group of lobbyists, on behalf of a developer, seek to stack a council to get their own way. Which part of that is okay and appropriate?’ Burke did not reject the description, but claimed he was just doing his job as a lobbyist.85 Burke knew that his media offensive would soon hit a roadblock. He was acutely aware of pressing developments behind the scenes. Away from the public eye, a Western Australian Legislative Council Select Committee had been conducting secret hearings into his and Grill’s involvement with Cazaly Resources Limited and the strategy they had devised to use parliament to force a settlement with Rio Tinto. When it released its report in November 2007,86 Burke must have known he was potentially in far more serious trouble than his public statements on Smiths Beach had indicated, especially as he had been called to give evidence to the inquiry and had made a bad fist of it. Burke could not 239

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escape his past. ‘Mr Burke is an experienced witness given his many appearances before various courts and inquiries over the past two decades’, the committee wrote. And with this, the committee took a sledgehammer to Burke’s integrity as a witness: Mr Burke is skilled at answering questions with questions; side tracking a line of questioning in an effort to avoid answering questions; frequently declines to offer an opinion or to draw an obvious conclusion when asked; his answers are often evasive (that is, providing a response but not an answer to the question asked); often and conveniently does not recall and makes no effort following the hearing to seek to refresh his memory and supplement his answer despite being invited to.87 So difficult was Burke as a witness that his second appearance before the committee on the Cazaly matter lasted for over six hours. Practised as he was in the art of stonewalling, there was more than a hint that Burke realised he may be in serious trouble this time. Prior to giving evidence, he visited the Legislative Council Select Committee office to examine relevant documents. A clerk assisting the committee kept detailed file notes of his interactions with Burke: Mr Burke then attacked the preliminary findings, calling the Committee a Kangaroo Court. He said the media will turn on the Committee. Parliament will be a laughing stock. ‘You [not sure if he meant the Committee or me personally] will be embarrassed and humiliated.’ I did not respond. At one stage Mr Burke leaned forward and said to me under his breath in an exasperated tone: ‘You’ve fucked me!’88 As this blunt assessment indicates, Burke thought he would face an adverse finding as, indeed, he did. The committee recommended that the attorney-general assess the false evidence Burke gave to the committee and determine whether he should be prosecuted under the criminal 240

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code. Similar recommendations were made against Shelley Archer, Noel Crichton-Brown and Liberal backbencher Anthony Fels.89 Upon its release Labor parliamentarian Bon Kucera, a former assistant commissioner in the Western Australian police force, addressed the Select Committee’s report in a speech to parliament. Emphasising that he had ‘investigated many of these kinds of complaints’, he explained that the Cazaly affair constituted, in his view, ‘an attempt to pervert the course of justice . . . At the end of the day, a group of people put their heads together to use . . . the parliamentary system to bring about . . . an extortion of monies from the shareholders and the people who stand for Rio Tinto Ltd’.90 The exposure of his lobbying activities has been a disaster for Burke. But how he made sense of his misfortune is revealing. He told the Corruption and Crime Commission: My children, particularly my daughters who have some political involvement, have seen that political outlook affected. My best friend has been forced to resign his ministry and has been forced out of the Parliament and the party and is hospitalised. Other long-term friends and acquaintances are naturally reluctant to continue relationships. My business has collapsed with no prospect of my earning a living as I had previously and I will have to pay very substantial legal fees and other costs and I am continually reviled in media reports. Now it may be, Sir, that these penalties are justified by what’s been led in evidence at this commission, but I don’t think so.91 Brian Burke thinks he is the victim; that the drama and chaos that has engulfed him, and those close to him, has little to do with his actions. It is part of a pattern of self-denial and resembles the statements he made about his involvement in WA Inc at his subsequent criminal trials and in his evidence to the Select Committee. Burke appears to think that society’s norms do not apply to him. Just as he did in the wake of WA Inc and the report into Smiths Beach, Burke found a way to 241

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rationalise his actions. He seems to believe that he is incapable of acting improperly. Burke has gone from premier to pariah over the past two decades. As 2007, a particularly difficult year for him, came to a close, he headed out of the limelight and flew to Ireland to visit family. Before he left he auctioned his infamous panama hat for charity. It raised $6000.92 Was Burke hoping to shed the image that, for many, had captured and defined his character?

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CHAPTER 10 AN UNCERTAIN FUTURE

NOW IN HIS EARLY SIXTIES, BURKE faces an uncertain future. On his own admission he is the most vilified political figure in Australia.1 His consultancy business is all but washed up; the corporate clients who were once eager to pay him handsomely for his unconventional services have scattered. The state government’s belatedly created register of lobbyists has blacklisted both him and Grill. His powerbase in the ALP has been officially stripped away. The resignation of unionist Kevin Reynolds from the ALP further weakened any residual support he had in the party. Publicly Burke’s reputation has taken a battering. The Select Committee’s report into the Cazaly matter has been especially damaging for him. Not only does he face the prospect of criminal charges, but his lack of credibility as a witness has been exposed again. No-one has been more determined to undermine Burke than the current premier, Alan Carpenter. As if to atone for his original decision to lift the ban on Burke and Grill’s lobbying business Carpenter has taken Burke head-on, labelling him, in barely concealed anger, an ‘unstoppable manipulator’ and warning everyone, including the media, to steer clear of him.2 Such public vilification might have broken a less resilient character. But not Brian Burke. His most recent statements 243

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underline his view that he has done nothing wrong and, therefore, has nothing to be remorseful about. It is a clear indicator that Burke sees the world differently to most. It is a pattern that was set from the start of his public career. The man who has lived parallel lives to pursue his objectives has long struggled to reconcile the means and the ends. In fact, a number of commentators believe that Burke’s love of intrigue and dealmaking are so ingrained that he will continue to strive to find a place for himself in the public limelight, while some Labor insiders believe Burke remains a covert influence in the party. For the time being, his old friend Shelley Archer—who was forced to resign from the Labor Party due to her links with Burke—holds the balance of power in the Legislative Council. She has said several times that Burke is still her mentor. Husband Kevin Reynolds remains influential in the CFMEU [Construction, Foresty, Mining and Engineering Union), which is still affiliated to the Labor Party. With these ties, and his underlying personal drive, Burke’s influence is unlikely to have been completely extinguished. Indeed, a number of Labor backbenchers fear that Burke will plot revenge on his enemies in the party whenever the opportunity arises. Whether or not he remains a figure to be reckoned with, Burke is unlikely to rise again to the position of power he held in the past. So what is the public to make of his life? The natural temptation is to depict him simply as a flawed figure—a man who lost his moral compass. He certainly did not lack ethical influences in his life: the decency of his parents’ values, the political example of his father and Catholic teachings. These influences are manifest in the love he expresses for his family, the loyalty he shows to his inner circle of friends and the support he extends to those down on their luck. In these ways Burke views himself as a good citizen. However, in his parallel life pursuing wealth and power Burke reveals a calculating ruthlessness which he rationalises and, it seems, mostly denies. While he possesses a rare combination of characteristics and skills, Burke is not unique in the goals he has chosen to pursue nor in some of the methods he uses to attain them. He can be located within the Australian political tradition 244

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and his career can help illuminate dimensions of politics that are too little examined. Burke’s career has appropriated what are widely thought to be the ‘lessons’ of Machiavelli’s realist approach to politics, particularly as set out in The Prince. He may not have read Machiavelli but he inherited the tradition from his hero Huey Long. From Long’s career Burke discovered the model of politics as an art form to be manipulated in the quest to stay in power. He found he had the natural skills to operate in this way. His ascent to the position of most popular premier in Australia was built on these skills. He was the master of media manipulation, patronage and populism. He was in the forefront of the modern manifestations of this style of politics, and his legacy has been picked up by others. Federal Labor powerbroker in the Hawke government, Senator Graham Richardson, acknowledged his debt to the Machiavellian tradition in the title of his autobiography, Whatever it Takes, in which he wrote: ‘I learned the right words to get someone on side and when to say them. If anger was needed or a hint of menace, I learned how to provide it. In short I was a pretty good persuader.’3 Expediency and cunning in the art of winning has been acknowledged as the special forte of former prime minister John Howard. In turn, Howard is known to have relied on the ‘Machiavellian influence’ of Liberal Party pollster Mark Textor, who laid out for him ‘the dark political arts’ learnt in the bowels of the Republican Party in the United States.4 But Burke was always more than just another clever, Machiavellian political strategist. When he began rubbing shoulders with the boldest of the entrepreneurs at the start of his premiership, the champion of the battlers unleashed his own entrepreneurial instincts and ambitions. He saw how business and government could merge for their mutual benefit as well as for the benefit of his own leadership. WA Inc became the model. It was a form of crony capitalism based on cosy arrangements, secret dealings and the manipulation of the democratic process. Crony capitalism was designed to cement his power and, as acknowledged by the Royal Commission, some of the vast donations received from business 245

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were channelled to Burke through loans from his brother, the ALP’s official fundraiser. That Burke managed to evade any definitively adverse judgement involving personal corruption as a result of the Royal Commission only added to the intrigue surrounding his subsequent charging on travel rorts and stealing from the Labor Party. When the latter charge was quashed, Burke was henceforth able to pass himself off as little more than slightly tarnished, as if the processes of government he had systematically undermined no longer counted against his reputation. But there were subtle changes to how he presented himself after his release from prison. Without a public role to fill, Burke’s legendary charisma and interpersonal skills were used by him in a calculated and self-interested quest to redeem his reputation and rebuild his influence. In rebuilding his career after his stints in prison, Burke adapted this WA Inc model for his consultancy business. He knew no other way. He managed to blend being a powerbroker in the ALP with providing his corporate clients with strategies based on exploiting insider contacts in government. In turn, these contacts undermined or just abused accepted democratic procedures. As in his WA Inc days, Burke’s particular talent lay in co-opting others to help him. Plenty of corporate clients were willing to reap the rewards. The manner in which Burke and Grill operated their consultancy has generated reams of adverse public commentary. The similarities between their business operation and Burke’s days as premier have only added to the problem of accurately defining his place in Australian politics. A definitive judgement may have to wait. Nonetheless, key questions already stand out: has Burke been a sinister force bent on undermining the institutions and processes of government to his own ends, or has he merely pushed the boundaries of existing practice to their limits? Is Burke a one-off rogue operator, or the product of a corrupt system of politics? Burke’s activities as both premier and consultant have abundant parallels in Australian politics. Setting to one side the systemic political corruption surrounding several state government administrations— notably New South Wales under Robert Askin during the 1960s and 246

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1970s and the Queensland government led by Sir Joh Bjelke Petersen during the 1970s and 1980s—issues about the lack of integrity in government have dominated headlines during the very time covered by Burke’s appearances before the Corruption and Crime Commission and the ensuing public debate these have generated. In Tasmania, for example, persistent allegations of irregularities have surrounded the Lennon Labor government’s fast-tracking of the controversial Gunns pulp mill. Gunns is said to have grown so powerful that it exercises more influence over forestry practice than the government itself. Part of its power comes from its electoral funding of both sides of politics and through aggressive advertising mounted by the Forest Industries Association, of which it is the largest supporter.5 In New South Wales, the state-owned Railcorp was found by the Independent Commission Against Corruption (ICAC) to have fostered such a toxic culture of cover-up that it lost more than $6 million to graft. More recently ICAC uncovered the influence of property developers on Wollongong Council—which was sacked as a consequence—resulting in wider allegations about improper links between political donors and the state government’s development decisions. And in Victoria, a report by the state’s ombudsman found ‘councils lacked transparency and decisions were unjustifiably made in private’.6 Structural deficiencies in the operation of government have underpinned these controversies. However, the public outrage generated by this behaviour has failed to bring about any concerted effort to deal with the causes of political corruption: the flouting of accepted democratic norms which damage the public interest in the quest for political and sectional advantage.7 These lie in the institutional weaknesses of the Australian political system. High on the list is the poorly regulated system of corporate donations to political parties, the very mechanism Burke used to such devastating effect both as premier, business consultant and ALP powerbroker. Since Burke’s departure from office in the late 1980s, the trend towards corporate-funded, media-intense election campaigns has accelerated with little protest from the major parties. The 247

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flow of corporate money into party coffers may be the single greatest corrupting influence in Australian politics. As retiring federal Labor member Carmen Lawrence has pointed out: ‘Corporations do not make large donations out of charitable impulse or a commitment to civic duty. They do it because they believe it will purchase influence. However, the purchase of these special interests may be inimical to the public good, especially if other, contrary, views are not given the same access or weight.’8 There are other issues fermenting political corruption in Australia including the lack of effective scrutiny of lobbyists, weak freedom of information legislation and the lack of true democratic processes within the major political parties. This might be considered just a preliminary list. The point is that Burke managed, in various ways, to harness a range of these structural shortcomings throughout his career. As a political fundraiser he was without peer in contemporary politics, and he used this skill to cement his influence. The media-focused and advertising-driven election campaigns that were hallmarks of Burke’s style as premier have steadily intensified around the country, at both the state and federal level. John Howard significantly relaxed the regulations governing the amount of money donors could give to political parties without disclosure from $1500 to $10 000. The former prime minister also took a tolerant attitude to corporate donations. Responding to Gunns’ generosity to the Liberal Party, Mr Howard said, ‘There is nothing wrong with the Liberals accepting donations from Gunns Ltd at the same time as making key decisions on the company’s Tasmanian pulp mill.’9 Daylight barely separates this statement from those that Burke made about WA Inc. At the time of writing, the newly elected Rudd Labor government has signalled its intention to reduce the limit required for disclosure to $1000 for any campaign contribution. This measure has been foreshadowed as part of a broader package of campaign finance reform yet to be announced. But federal Labor has given no signal that it is prepared to outlaw contributions from corporations altogether. This, however, has been recommended by 248

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the Iemma government for elections in New South Wales, the first government in Australia to advocate for full public funding of elections. While this may be an effective measure to limit the influence of money in politics, it is clear that simply tightening the disclosure laws is ineffective. A study undertaken for the Democratic Audit of Australia argues that the information contained on the register of donations for federal elections has been next to useless: Because parties disclose so little information, we have little understanding of how parties allocate their money, which seats they consider the most important, and what the relationship is between what they spend and how their candidates do. Because so little information is revealed, the media give the election disclosures only a perfunctory treatment.10 As former US Senator Russell Long, the son of Huey, once said, ‘The distinction between a large campaign contribution and a bribe is almost a hair line’s difference.’11 On all occasions when the issue has been raised in Australia, politicians have been able to obfuscate any connection between contributions and the decisions they make. And then there is the lobbying industry. Despite its protestations that Burke and Grill were rogue operators, little of substance is known about the extent of its influence. Lobbying is an elusive activity to define. Much of it is commonplace and part of normal government interaction with a wide range of organisations. It only emerged as a commercialised profession with a client base of large corporations during the 1970s.12 As the scandals surrounding Burke have shown, some of the corporations which use lobbyists to influence government decision-making are happy to cut corners in pursuit of commercial self-interest. Burke specialised in the type of closed lobbying where secrecy and clandestine strategies could be ruthlessly effective, where money talks and the public interest could be overlooked. While natural and astute operators in this shadowy world, Burke and Grill are not alone. 249

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The constant procession of former politicians into the welcoming arms of the lobby industry leaves open the suggestion that some may be trading on their relationships with former contacts in ways that evade public accountability. Burke combined his role as an ALP powerbroker with his lobbying business to amass considerable wealth. In partnership with Julian Grill, his business developed to the point where it became a virtual shadow government. Only recently has the WA Labor government created a register of lobbyists and a code of conduct, moves that have been endorsed by the Rudd government at the federal level. Whether such registers are effective, especially against such consummate operators as Burke and Grill, is debatable. Experience in Canada, which introduced legislation to regulate lobbying two decades ago, highlights the ability of lobbyists to evade regulation and that governments backslide on maintaining proper vigilance over the industry. Failure to regulate the various ways in which corporate money infiltrates the political system and undermines its processes is part of a wider problem of political corruption in modern democracies. But what about those who engage in such undermining? Are they corrupt? Burke and Grill have had the opportunity to challenge any such assertion. They claimed a victory over Western Australian attorneygeneral Jim McGinty for comments he made on ABC radio in early March 2008 when, in defending the Corruption and Crime Commission, he said that the organisation was ‘stopping corruption, particularly by lobbyists in its tracks’. Burke and Grill cried foul, claiming the comment could only have applied to them and was defamatory. With a deadline for the action looming, McGinty sent them some clarifying comments. He was, he explained, referring to corruption in the political meaning of that term—the undermining of the ‘proper and transparent government decision-making processes’—as well as within the definition of ‘misconduct’ set out in the Corruption and Crime Commission Act. The pair immediately labelled the attorney-general’s comments ‘a back down’ even though they acknowledged that ‘Mr McGinty’s statement falls well short of the apology we sought’.13 In fact, in his letter to Burke and Grill, 250

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McGinty stated that his initial radio comment ‘does not call for an apology’.14 Burke and Grill have now withdrawn their action against McGinty, so there will be no immediate legal determination as to the nature of their behaviour. In this exchange with McGinty is the wider problem of how Burke and Grill’s activities should be depicted. Under the powers granted to the Corruption and Crime Commission, any public officer can be charged with misconduct if they act corruptly in the performance of their duties, an offence incurring a possible prison term. But private citizens like Burke and Grill do not fall under this definition. In fact, following an independent review of the Corruption and Crime Commission Act, McGinty has foreshadowed extending the powers of the commission to report opinions on people who do not work in government. Further reports on Burke and Grill’s lobbying activities are expected to be released by the Corruption and Crime Commission. Whether or not these claim Burke broke any part of the criminal code will have some additional bearing on his place in history, otherwise he may escape any findings against him. But whatever the legal outcomes, the scandals surrounding Burke’s career, whose wrongdoings must rank among the most serious by a single political figure in post-war Australia, have highlighted the need for a powerful watchdog, independent of government, to maintain integrity in public administration. To date only Queensland, New South Wales and Western Australia have established such bodies, and these have come about only in response to various scandals in public administration. However, the vast powers given to anti-corruption bodies are not without dilemmas for democracy. Are the safeguards adequate for those caught up in the resulting web of electronic surveillance and public hearings? For example, were Burke and Grill fairly treated in not being informed whether surveillance activity had ceased? Against these concerns is the reflection of recently retired Queensland premier Peter Beattie that the Queensland Crime and Misconduct Commission has had a ‘therapeutic effect’ on the political culture of that state.15 Yet, as the 251

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situation in Western Australia has shown, the change in culture must be widely embraced: by the public service, political parties, the media and individual politicians. For all of the recent developments in support of political integrity, there is every prospect there will be other Brian Burke–like figures in Australian politics in the future. But his career, marked as it has been by on-going official investigations and sordid allegations of political corruption, permits some reflection on the darker sides of power: its seductive qualities, its clandestine nature and its layers of obfuscation. Some future politicians are likely to try to convince themselves that these ‘dark arts’ are the necessary tool kit for even a well-intentioned career.

252

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WHEN TO DRAW THE LINE ON collecting information is always a dilemma in writing a biography. Stories about Burke abound. Some depict him as a larger than life figure and seem pure mythology. But nothing can easily be discounted when it comes to Burke’s life. And so it was, with the final page proofs of the manuscript about to arrive, that I walked into my office and noticed the button on my voicemail flashing red with its customary urgency. When I returned the call I heard the steady, polite voice of an elderly man. He had seen a story in that day’s West Australian about the book’s impending publication. He told me he had some information about Burke that would help me understand the character of the man. I joked with him that there were thousands of stories about Burke and that I had undoubtedly not heard them all. He insisted that his was not idle gossip. The voice on the other end of the line explained that he had only met Burke once. He didn’t much like the man, he admitted, but he had had no reason to actively dislike him. As it turned out, it was the recollections of a close friend of his that he wanted to relay. The friend was dead but had been an active member of the Water Supply Union, one of ‘Burkie’s’ power bases in the Right of the Labor Party. This friend had regarded 253

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Burke as almost a god-like figure. Around 1980 he had passed onto my informant a conversation he had had with Burke in which Burke declared he had ‘moulded’ his career on that of Huey Long. It was as definite as that. But there was another tantalising snippet. My informant said that years ago his union friend had lent him a book that had belonged to Burke. Somehow the book had stayed in my informant’s possession. He had the book in his hand as we spoke, Machiavelli: A dissection by Sydney Anglo—the missing piece of the puzzle. Anglo’s depiction of Machiavelli introduced Burke to the following view of politics: Machiavelli did something else to the old dictum that ‘necessity has no law’. For him necessity had many laws, but they were different from all other rules of conduct: and, as I have suggested, Machiavelli took ideas which had long been in common currency—either as shamefaced and apologetic hints as to what naughty deeds rulers might occasionally be forced into . . . and demonstrated that these were, in truth, the very laws of necessity.1 Along with Huey Long, could this have been the imprint for Burke’s career?

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NOTES

Many people were interviewed for this book, however not all were prepared to be named. Where they were happy to be quoted this has been indicated in the notes.

Introduction 1. M. Price, Sunday Times, 4 March 2007. 2. Cited in P. FitzSimons, Beazley, Harper Collins, Sydney, 1998, p. 331. 3. West Australian, 16 November 2006.

Chapter 1 Son of Labor 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

Western Australian Parliamentary Debates, 1973, vol. 201, p. 4193. Western Australian Parliamentary Debates, 1987, vol. 269, p. 8308. ibid. J. Hamilton, Burkie: A Biography of Brian Burke, St George Books, Perth, 1988. ibid. G. Bolton, A Fine Country to Starve In, University of Western Australian Press, Perth, 1972. R. Fitzgerald, The Pope’s Battalions: Santamaria, Catholicism and the Labor split, University of Queensland Press, Brisbane, 2003. Hamilton, Burkie. B. Peachey, The Burkes of Western Australia, Peachey Holdings, Perth, 1992. ibid. 255

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11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

Cited in Peachey, The Burkes, p. 19. Commonwealth of Australia Parliamentary Debates, 1948, p. 2216. P. FitzSimons, Beazley, Harper Collins, Sydney, 1998. Hamilton, Burkie. ibid. Commonwealth Parliamentary Debates, 1948, p. 55. ibid. Hamilton, Burkie. Time, 13 May 1991. T. Miller, Children of Trauma: Stressful life events and their effects on children, International University Studies Press, Madison, 1998. Hamilton, Burkie. Fitzgerald, The Pope’s Battalions. R. Murray, ‘The Split’ in The Australian Century: Political struggle in the building of a nation, ed. R. Manne, Text Publishing, Melbourne, 1999. Fitzgerald, The Pope’s Battalions. B. Duncan, Crusade or Conspiracy? Catholics and the anti-communist struggle in Australia, University of New South Wales Press, Sydney, 2001. D. Day, Chifley, Harper Collins, Sydney, 2001. H. Chamberlain, The Life and Times of Joe Chamberlain Socialist Extraordinaire, State Library of Western Australia, unpublished, Perth, n.d. West Australian, 23 October 1984. Peachey, The Burkes. J. Brett, Robert Menzies’ Forgotten People, Macmillan, Melbourne, 1993. R. McMullin, The Light on the Hill, Oxford University Press, Melbourne, 1991, p. 259. Day, Chifley, p. 509. ibid. McMullin, The Light on the Hill, p. 259. Day, Chifley, p. 510, footnote 22. L. Elliot, interview, The Western Australian Library Board of Western Australia, Parliamentary History Project, 1987, unpublished, p. 80. Chamberlain, The Life and Times of Joe Chamberlain, p. 68. Peachey, The Burkes. Elliot, interview, Parliamentary History Project. West Australian, 23 December 1987. Hamilton, Burkie. G. Freudenberg, A Certain Grandeur: Gough Whitlam in politics, Macmillan, Melbourne, 1977, p. 27. Cited in Peachey, The Burkes. 256

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NOTES

44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60.

McMullin, The Light on the Hill. Interview with Malcolm Bryce. Chamberlain, ‘The Life and Times of Joe Chamberlain’, p. 1. Hamilton, Burkie. Interview with Brian Peachey. J. Hamilton, ‘Enigmatic premier’, West Australian, 1 January 1985. D. Light and D. Humphries, ‘Brian Burke’, Sydney Morning Herald, 27 April 1991. Interview with Joseph Poprzeczny. R. Mathews, ‘A study in unintended consequences: B.A. Santamaria and the marginalising of social Catholicism in Australia’, The Chesterton Review, vol. 27, nos 1 and 2, 2006, pp. 63–88; C. Jory, The Campion Society and Catholic Social Militancy in Australia, Harpham, Sydney, 1986. Western Mail, 6–7 November 1987. Interview with Kim Beazley. West Australian, 23 December 1987. Western Mail, 6–7 November 1987. ibid. Hamilton, Burkie, p. 33. ibid., p. 44. Western Mail, 6–7 November 1987.

Chapter 2

The making of a political operator

1. P. Terry, ‘The Life of Brian’, The Australian, 23 December 1987. 2. J. Fetherston, ‘Politics and family and running mates for Burke’, Pulse Bunbury ALP News, January 1985. 3. Interview with Kim Beazley. 4. A. Horin, ‘How Brian Burke has won the west’, National Times, 11–17 November 1983. 5. ibid. 6. Interview with Tim Treadgold. 7. Hamilton, Burkie. 8. D. Graham, ‘A Four-on-the-floor politician bows out’, Sydney Morning Herald, 16 July 1994. 9. Horin, ‘How Brian Burke has won the west’. 10. Interview with Kim Beazley. 11. Horin, ‘How Brian Burke has won the west’. 12. Hamilton, Burkie. 13. Horin, ‘How Brian Burke has won the west’. 14. P. FitzSimons, Beazley, Harper Collins, Sydney, 1998, p. 121. 257

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15. K. Wilson, interview, the Western Australian Parliamentary History Project, Library Board of Western Australia, unpublished, 1994, p. 45. 16. Hamilton, Burkie, p. 93. 17. West Australian, 19 December 1991. 18. West Australian, 20 March 1980. 19. ibid. 20. ibid. 21. Cited in Q. Beresford, Rob Riley: An Aboriginal leader’s quest for justice, Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 2006, p. 92. 22. West Australian, 7 September 1979. 23. FitzSimons, Beazley, p. 161. 24. Graham, ‘A Four-on-the-floor politician bows out’. 25. Hamilton, Burkie, p. 97. 26. Western Mail, 19 September 1981. 27. Interview with Arthur Tonkin. 28. Sunday Times, 25 November 1990. 29. Sunday Times, 12 January 1986. 30. ibid. 31. West Australian, 25 February 1988. 32. Sunday Times, 28 February 1988. 33. Information on Burke’s interest in Long came from interviews with Malcolm Bryce, Kim Beazley and Arthur Tonkin. 34. The New York Times, 25 February 1986. 35. T. Williams, Huey Long, Vintage Books, New York, 1981. 36. Interview with Kim Beazley. 37. Daily News, 18 November 1982. 38. Western Australian Parliamentary Debates, 1981–82, pp. 5455–56. 39. A. Peachment, ‘WA Inc’, in A. Peachment ed., The Business of Government: Western Australia 1983–1990, Federation Press, Sydney, 1991, p. 188. 40. J. Grill, ‘Policy innovation as imagination: Political origins of the WADC’, in ibid. 41. Hamilton, Burkie, p. 144. 42. Grill, ‘Policy Innovation as Imagination’, p. 177. 43. Terry, ‘The Life of Brian’. 44. Interview with Tom Stephens. 45. Interview with Phillip Pendal. 46. Williams, Huey Long, p. 201. 47. Royal Commission into Commercial Activities of Government and Other Matters, Report, 1992, part 1, vol. 2, pp. 7–9. 48. T. Sykes, The Bold Riders: Behind Australia’s corporate collapse, Allen & Unwin, Sydney, 1994, p. 69. 258

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NOTES

49. R. Taylor, ‘Big Brother Jack’, The Canberra Times Sunday Magazine, 28 May 1989. 50. Cited in D. Humphries, C. Ryan and J. Lyons, ‘WA Inc’, Sydney Morning Herald, 30 March 1991. 51. Sunday Times, 7 April 1991. 52. Interview with Malcolm Bryce.

Chapter 3 In the shadow of Huey Long 1. G. Sheridan, ‘Brian Burke—scourge of the Left mediocrity’, The Australian, 9 February 1985. 2. M. White, Machiavelli: A man misunderstood, Abacus, London, 2005, p. 86. 3. J. Hamilton, Burkie: A Biography of Brian Burke, St George Books, Perth, 1988, p. 9. 4. J. Burns, Leadership, Harper Torchbooks, New York, 1979, p. 244. 5. A. Tonkin, interview, The Western Australian Parliamentary History Project, Library Board of Western Australia, 1988, unpublished, p. 198. 6. Interview with Judyth Watson. 7. Daily News, 5 September 1985. 8. ibid. 9. Interview with Arthur Tonkin. 10. M. Price, ‘Brian Burke: A personal reflection’, Western Review, March 1997. 11. Hamilton, ‘Enigmatic Premier’, West Australian, January 1985. 12. T. Williams, Huey Long, Vintage Books, New York, 1981, p. 62. 13. Interview with Sue Roberts. 14. Tonkin, interview, Parliamentary History Project, p. 309. 15. G. Easdown, ‘Premier of propaganda’, Herald-Sun, 14 June 1991. 16. A. Horin, ‘How Brian Burke has won the west’, National Times, 11–17 November 1983. 17. ibid. 18. Western Mail, 30–31 July 1983. 19. All quotes in this paragraph from P. Terry, ‘The Premier who goes for the open line’, The Australian, 14 January 1986; P. Terry, ‘The Life of Brian’, The Australian, 23 December 1987. 20. Interview with Sue Roberts. 21. Terry, ‘The Life of Brian’. 22. M. Southwell, ‘Burkie’s way with words—and journos’, Scoop, December 1987, p. 4. 23. ibid. 24. ibid., p. 3. 25. Interview with Phillip Pendal. 259

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26. Williams, Huey Long, p. 290. 27. Tonkin, interview, Parliamentary History Project, p. 432. 28. Royal Commission into Commercial Activities of Government and Other Matters (RCCAGOM) 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 4, pp. 13–21. 29. J. Grill, ‘Policy innovation as imagination: Political origins of the WADC’ in The Business of Government: Western Australia 1983–1990, ed. A. Peachment, Federation Press, Sydney, 1991, p. 175. 30. M. Bloch, Feudal Society, vol. 1, Routledge and Kegan Paul, London, 1982, p. 147. 31. ibid., pp. 148–9. 32. P. O’Brien, ‘Western Australia Inc: A state of corruption’, Quadrant, November 1988. 33. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 6, pp. 25–14. 34. Tonkin, interview, Parliamentary History Project, p. 432. 35. ibid. 36. R. Bennett and J. Poprzeczny, ‘Jobs for the boys: Burke’s pillars of power’ in The Burke Ambush: Corporatism and society in Western Australia, ed. P. O’Brien, Apollo Press, Perth, 1986, p. 161. 37. Interview with Jim McGinty. 38. P. O’Brien, ‘Doing deals’, Time, 22 April 1991, p. 41. 39. M. Thompson, ‘A history of recent industrial relations events in the Australian building and construction industry’, Royal Commission into the Building and Construction Industry, Discussion Paper No. 7, 2002. 40. M. Fox, ‘United they stand’, Sunday Times Magazine, 24 June 2007. 41. ibid. 42. Interview with Michael Thorn. 43. Interview with Jim McGinty. 44. Tonkin, interview, Parliamentary History Project, p. 308. 45. ibid., p. 281. 46. Williams, Huey Long. 47. P. McGeough, ‘Brian Burke’, West Australian, 18 February 1984. 48. Cited in B. Peachey, The Burkes of Western Australia, Peachey Holdings, Perth, 1992. 49. Cited in ibid., p. 153. 50. Sheridan, ‘Brian Burke’. 51. M. Bai, ‘The poverty platform’, New York Times Magazine, 10 June 2007, p. 3. 52. Sheridan, ‘Brian Burke’. 53. The Age, 30 October 1984. 260

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54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70.

D. Graham, ‘At the back of Burke, the desert’, The Age, 24 February 1988. Sunday Times, 6 March 1988. Western Australian Parliamentary Debates, vol. 245, 1983–84, p. 4954. T. Sykes, The Bold Riders: Behind Australia’s corporate collapse, Allen & Unwin, Sydney, 1994, p. 77. West Australian, 30 March 1985. P. O’Brien, ed., The Burke Ambush: Corporatism and society in Western Australia, Apollo Press, Perth, 1986, p. xiii. P. O’Brien, ‘Western Australia Inc: A state of corruption’, Quadrant, November 1988, p. 5. Bennett and Poprzeczny, ‘Jobs for the boys’, p. 85. G. Gallop, ‘Review of The Burke Ambush’, Westerly, no. 2, June 1986, pp. 92–3. Price, ‘Brian Burke: A personal reflection’. Sunday Times, 6 September 1987. Hamilton, ‘Enigmatic Premier’. Price, ‘Brian Burke: A personal reflection’. Western Mail, 6 April 1986. Cited in The Age, 30 April 1991. Sunday Times, 22 February 1987. Daily News, 6 November 1987.

Chapter 4 The fixer 1. Cited in J. Hamilton, Burkie: A biography of Brian Burke, St George Books, Perth, 1988, p. 133. 2. The Bulletin, 7 January 1986. 3. Hamilton, Burkie, p. 141. 4. West Australian, 28 September 1984. 5. West Australian, 1 October 1984. 6. Interview with Tom Stephens. 7. Q. Beresford, Rob Riley: An Aboriginal leader’s quest for justice, Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 2006. 8. ibid. 9. Daily News, 2 October 1984. 10. West Australian, 15 October 1984. 11. West Australian, 29 September 1984. 12. The Australian, 24 January 1985. 13. ibid. 14. Beresford, Rob Riley. 15. Riley letter in possession of the author from Riley’s personal papers. 261

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16. C. Jennett, ‘The great Australian backlash’, National Outlook, December 1985–January 1986. 17. Beresford, Rob Riley. 18. Interview with Tom Stephens. 19. West Australian, 14 February 1986. 20. The Australian, 9 February 1985. 21. M. Bryce, ‘Electoral reform in Western Australia, 1983–97’, The Parliamentarian, January 1988. 22. West Australian, 14 April 1980. 23. D. Rumley, ‘WA electoral boundaries have built-in bias’, West Australian, 15 April 1980. 24. Interviews with Arthur Tonkin and Malcolm Bryce. 25. West Australian, 11 June 1987. 26. Interview with Arthur Tonkin. 27. Conservation Council of Western Australia, The Forest Debate in Western Australia, Perth WA Conservation Council, 1999. 28. R. Underwood, Old Growth Foresters: The lives and times of Western Australian foresters, a personal account, York Gum Publishing, Perth, 2006, p. 206. 29. Western Mail, 23–24 February 1985. 30. Underwood, Old Growth Foresters, p. 196. 31. Corruption and Crime Commission, Transcripts of Evidence, 31 October 2006, p. 624. The transcripts are available at the Commission’s website: www.ccc.wa.gov.au. 32. Underwood, Old Growth Foresters, p. 200. 33. ibid., p. 204. 34. ibid., p. 199. 35. ibid. 36. Campaign to Save Native Forests, CSNF News, August–September 1987, pp. 6–8; C. Sharp, Using the Forests: Exploring a green paradigm for sustainable development of Western Australia, Murdoch University, Perth, 1995. 37. West Australian, 7 April 1999. 38. Underwood, Old Growth Foresters, p. 207. 39. Interview with Dr Carmen Lawrence. 40. D. Graham, ‘At the back of Burke, the desert’, The Age, 24 February 1988. 41. West Australian, 16 February 1987.

Chapter 5

Crony capitalism

1. West Australian, 11 June 1985. 2. West Australian, 28 September 1987. 262

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3. J. Mayman, ‘With a nod and a WA Inc’, The Weekend Australian, 10–11 March 2007. 4. Interview with Kim Beazley. 5. Column printed in Daily News, 5 September 1985. 6. J. Grill, ‘Policy innovation as imagination: Political origins of the WADC’ in The Business of Government: Western Australia 1983–1990, ed. A. Peachment, Federation Press, Sydney, 1991, p. 182. 7. T. Williams, Huey Long, Vintage Books, New York, 1981, p. 820. 8. ibid., p. 821. 9. R. Taylor, ‘Big Brother Jack’, Canberra Times Sunday Magazine, 28 May 1989. 10. Sydney Morning Herald, 30 March 1991. The SMH obtained a copy of the letter as part of its coverage of the Royal Commission. 11. West Australian, 28 February 1996. 12. T. Sykes, The Bold Riders: Behind Australia’s corporate collapse, Allen & Unwin, Sydney, 1994. 13. D. Light and D. Humphries, ‘Connell gets his chance to even the score’, The Age, 13 April 1991. 14. Royal Commission into Commercial Activities of Government and Other Matters (RCCAGOM) 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 2, pp. 7–26. 15. Sykes, The Bold Riders. 16. P. Barry, The Rise and Fall of Alan Bond, Bantam Books, Sydney, 1990, p. 148. 17. Mayman, ‘With a nod and a WA Inc’. 18. Light and Humphries, ‘Connell gets his chance to even the score’. 19. Sykes, The Bold Riders. 20. B. Stannard, ‘Alan Bond: A jack-of-all-trades with a masterful obsession’, The Bulletin, 26 November 1985. 21. Barry, The Rise and Fall of Alan Bond, p. 107. 22. Stannard, ‘Alan Bond’. 23. Sydney Morning Herald, 7 May 1991. 24. Sykes, The Bold Riders, p. 71. 25. D. Light and D. Humphries, ‘WA Inc’s Most Wanted Man’, Sydney Morning Herald, 18 May 1991. 26. D. Humphries, C. Ryan and J. Lyons, ‘WA Inc’, Sydney Morning Herald, 30 March 1991. 27. Sydney Morning Herald, 29 November 2003. 28. N. Aisbett, ‘Burke looks back—Burke’s who’s who’, West Australian, 1 June 2002. 29. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 2, pp. 8–65. 263

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30. Barry, The Rise and Fall of Alan Bond. 31. I. Alexander, interview, The Western Australian Parliamentary History Project, Library Board of Western Australia, unpublished, 1998, p. 59. 32. Cited in S. Loxley, ‘Life after Brian’, Weekend Financial Review, 4 March 1988. 33. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 2, pp. 10–33. 34. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 3, pp. 10–85. 35. P. Smark and M. Skulley, ‘State of unholy matrimony—when govt merged with business’, Sydney Morning Herald, 8 November 1988. 36. ibid. 37. R. Conway, ‘The rise and decline of the ’80s man’, The Bulletin, 21 May 1991. 38. Sydney Morning Herald, 3 February 1996. 39. Barry, The Rise and Fall of Alan Bond, p. 152. 40. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 2, pp. 7–90. For a full examination of all the government’s business dealings that make up WA Inc see the Report of the Royal Commission and Sykes, 1994. 41. ibid., pp. 7–50. 42. ibid., pp. 7–52. 43. Western Mail, 23–24 February 1985. 44. Western Australian Parliamentary Debates, vol. 253, 1985, p. 162. 45. Sydney Morning Herald, 18 June 1991. 46. ibid. 47. Western Mail, 23–24 February 1984. 48. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 2, pp. 8–65. 49. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 6, pp. 25–14. 50. ABC Television, ‘The ones that got away’, Four Corners, 7 August 2000. 51. Daily News, 5 April 1984. See also Sunday Times, 15 July 1984; Daily News, 16 August 1984. 52. Western Mail, 23–24 February 1985. 53. ibid. 54. Sunday Times, 25 October 1992. 55. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 6, pp. 25–15. 56. RCCAGOM, transcripts 1991, p. 6193. 57. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 6, pp. 25–15. 58. Western Mail, 9–10 November 1985. 59. Interview with Martin Saxon. 60. From a letter shown to the author by Martin Saxon. 61. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 2, pp. 8–65. 62. ibid., pp. 8–69. 264

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63. Sunday Times, 25 October 1992. 64. Interview with Martin Saxon. 65. Daily News, 13 May 1988. 66. West Australian, 21 May 1988. 67. J. Mayman, ‘With a nod and a WA Inc’, The Weekend Australian, 10–11 March 2007. 68. ibid. 69. ibid. 70. R. Davies, Library Board of Western Australia 1994, unpublished. 71. Humphries, Ryan and Lyons, ‘WA Inc’. 72. Williams, Huey Long, p. 254. 73. ibid., p. 758. 74. D. Humphries, ‘Connell: I gave 1⁄4 million to PM’s fund’, Sydney Morning Herald, 30 March 1991. 75. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 3, 10–85. 76. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 2, pp. 8–65 and pp. 8–61; vol. 3, pp. 10–85; Sydney Morning Herald, 14 November 1992. 77. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 3, pp. 10–74–79. 78. Sunday Times, 31 March 1991. 79. The Australian, 28 October 1986. 80. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 3, pp. 10–29. 81. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 3, pp. 10–33. 82. Sykes, The Bold Riders. 83. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 3, pp. 10–146 and 148–158. 84. D. Light and D. Humphries, ‘Last resort—Laurie’s hour of revenge’, Sydney Morning Herald, 13 April 1991. 85. D. Light and D. Humphries, ‘Connell gets his chance to even the score’, The Age, 13 April 1991. 86. Sunday Times, 26 November 1989. 87. The Age, 14 June 1991. 88. ibid. 89. Sydney Morning Herald, 10 February 1987. 90. ibid. 91. A. Lampe and C. Ryan, ‘How Laurie sank a bank’, Sydney Morning Herald, 28 January 1989. 92. ibid. 93. Sykes, The Bold Riders, p. 139. 94. Sunday Times, 7 April 1991. 95. Sydney Morning Herald, 10 April 1991. 96. Sunday Times, 31 March 1991. 265

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97. The Australian, 30 November 1991. 98. West Australian, 6 October 1992. 99. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 4, pp. 13–60. 100. Sunday Times, 31 March 1991. 101. The Age, 30 March 1991. 102. P. McGeough, C. Ryan and D. Light, ‘Pollies and their mates: Where the buck stops’, Sydney Morning Herald, 1 August 1990. 103. M. Wilkinson, ‘The Fixer’, The Age, 10 February 1996. 104. ibid. 105. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 6, pp. 26–21. 106. The Australian, 23 May 1991. 107. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 6, pp. 26–12. 108. Interview with Tim Treadgold. 109. Lampe and Ryan, ‘How Laurie sank a bank’. 110. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 4. 111. I. Verrender and C. Ryan, ‘Dearest enemies’, Sydney Morning Herald, 30 May 1992. 112. Williams, Huey Long, 1981, p. 545. 113. Interview with Barry MacKinnon. 114. Sykes, The Bold Riders. 115. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 4, pp. 13–25–26 and 13–49. 116. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 4, pp. 13–58. 117. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 4, pp. 13–62 and 63. 118. All quotes on this page from RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 4, pp. 13–25, 14–2; Royal Commission into Commercial Activities of Government and Other Matters 1992, Transcripts of Evidence, 6 November 1991, pp. 13, 379. 119. Interview with Tim Treadgold. 120. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 4, pp. 13–46. 121. Interview with Tim Treadgold. 122. M. McCusker, Report of inspection on a special investigation into Rothwells Ltd, WA Government Printer, Perth, 1990. 123. J. Hamilton, Burkie, p. 13. 124. The Australian, 30 November 1991. 125. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 2, pp. 8–64, 69. 126. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 2, pp. 8–63, 64; Sydney Morning Herald, 5 July 1991. 127. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 4, pp. 13–59. 128. Sunday Times, 19 June 1988. 129. Daily News, 3 August 1990. 266

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130. West Australian, 25 February 1988. 131. Western Australian Parliamentary Debates, vol. 269, 1985, p. 8038. 132. West Australian, 16 August 1991. 133. G. Easdown, ‘Premier of propaganda’, Herald-Sun, 14 June 1991. 134. B. Peachey, The Burkes of Western Australia, Peachey Holdings, Perth, 1992, p. 138; D. Graham, ‘A four-on-the-floor politician bows out’, Sydney Morning Herald, 16 July 1994. 135. West Australian, 24 May 1996.

Chapter 6 The rise and fall of an ambassador 1. The ambassadorship was to Ireland and the Holy See. The added attraction for Burke was that he could visit the Vatican. 2. Sunday Times, 27 December 1987. 3. ibid. 4. Sunday Times, 25 September 1988. 5. West Australian Weekend, 3 December 1988; D. Graham, ‘A four-on-thefloor politician bows out’, Sydney Morning Herald, 16 July 1994. 6. T. Sykes, The Bold Riders: Behind Australia’s Corporate Collapse, Allen & Unwin, Sydney, 1994. 7. P. Barry, The Rise and Fall of Alan Bond, Bantam Books, Sydney, 1990, p. 216. 8. Sunday Times, 21 July 1991. 9. The Age, 2 May 1991. 10. Sunday Times, 12 May 1991; West Australian, 15 August 1991. 11. Sunday Times, 19 November 1989. 12. The Australian, 19 February 1990. 13. West Australian, 31 August 1991. 14. The Age, 20 April 1989. 15. Financial Review, 1 August 1989. 16. Financial Review, 5 September 1989. 17. West Australian, 31 August 1989. 18. Financial Review, 6 March 1989. 19. Financial Review, 5 March 1989. 20. West Australian, 19 February 1989. 21. West Australian, 10 August 1989. 22. Financial Review, 31 January 1990. 23. Sydney Morning Herald, 30 July 1990. 24. Interview with Bevan Lawrence. 25. West Australian, 21 November 1989. 267

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26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60.

Sunday Times, 18 March 1990. Interview with Bevan Lawrence. Sunday Times, 25 October 1992. The Australian, 5 October 1991. Interview with Bevan Lawrence. West Australian, 8 May 1991. Commonwealth Parliamentary Debates, Senate, 1992, vol. 154, p. 10. ibid. ibid. Sunday Times, 29 September 1992. West Australian, 2 August 1997. Royal Commission into Commercial Activities of Government and Other Matters, Report, 1992, part 1, vol. 6, pp. 26–21. J. O’Brien, The Modern Prince: Charles J. Haughey and the quest for power, Merlin Publishing, Dublin, 2002. The Irish Times, 21 July 2007. O’Brien, The Modern Prince, p. 152. Sunday Times, 3 August 1997. West Australian, 2 August 1997. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 6, pp. 26–21. Sunday Times, 3 August 1997. Daily News, 6 February 1990. West Australian, 21 November 1989. Sunday Times, 11 September 1990. Interview with Dr Carmen Lawrence. West Australian, 21 November 1989. The Australian, 19 March 1990. Sunday Times, 10 June 1990. B. Lawrence, ‘W.A. Inc: Why didn’t we hear the alarm bells?’, address to the Samuel Griffith Society, 1993: www.samuelgriffith.org.au/papers/htm/ volume3/v3chap3.htm. Sunday Times, 2 December 1990. ibid. All quotes from West Australian, 20 December 1990. Inteview with Les Ayton. Sunday Times, 7 April 1991. The record of interview was later submitted as Exhibit 336. Interview with Les Ayton. Sunday Times, 5 May 1991.

268

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Chapter 7 On trial 1. Royal Commission into Commercial Activities of Government and Other Matters 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 6, pp. 27–2. 2. D. Light and D. Humphries, ‘Brian Burke’, Sydney Morning Herald, 27 April 1991. 3. A. Carpenter, ‘Commission exclusive: The media, popular culture and the Royal Commission’ in M. Brogan and H. Phillips eds, Past as Prologue: The Royal Commission into Commercial Activities of Government and Other Matters, Edith Cowan University, Perth, 1995, p. 110. 4. The Age, 10 April 1991. 5. ibid. 6. Sydney Morning Herald, 10 April 1991. 7. Sydney Morning Herald, 12 April 1991. 8. Light and Humphries, ‘Brian Burke’. 9. Sydney Morning Herald, 12 April 1991; D. Humphries, C. Ryan and J. Lyons, ‘WA Inc’, Sydney Morning Herald, 30 March 1991. 10. Sydney Morning Herald, 12 April 1991. 11. A. Ramsay, ‘The Burke who’ll bring Hawke down, Sydney Morning Herald, 20 April 1991. 12. D. Light and D. Humphries, ‘Last resort Laurie’s hour of revenge’, Sydney Morning Herald, 13 April 1991. 13. All quotes from D. Light and D. Humphries, ‘Brian Burke’, Sydney Morning Herald, 27 April 1991. 14. Humphrey, Ryan and Lyons, ‘WA Inc’. 15. Light and Humphries, ‘Brian Burke’. 16. John Quigley joined the Labor Party in 1999 and, since 2001, has been a Labor member in the WA parliament. Since his entry into parliament, Quigley has not initiated any contact with Burke. However Burke has lobbied Quigley on several occasions about his business interests. On each occasion Quigley disclosed those contacts to the appropriate authorities. He agreed to be interviewed about his involvement with Burke because of the legitimate public interest in the events that brought the two together for a few intense years. Unless otherwise stated, all material relating to John Quigley comes from an interview with the author. 17. Carpenter, ‘Commission exclusive’, p. 109. 18. M. Grattan, ‘Hawke stumbles in the bog of mates and money’, The Age, 11 May 1991. 19. The Australian, 13 May 1991. 20. At the time of writing Alan Carpenter is the premier of Western Australia. 21. Carpenter, ‘Commission exclusive’, p. 110. 269

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22. ibid., p. 112. 23. Royal Commission into Commercial Activities of Government and Other Matters 1992, Transcripts of Evidence, 1 May 1991, p. 2486; 5 August 1992, p. K8694. 24. ibid., 15 April 1992, p. 7275. 25. Sunday Times, 26 April 1992. 26. RCCAGOM 1992, Transcripts of Evidence, 5 August 1992, p. K8732. 27. West Australian, 7 May 1991. 28. Interview with Margot Lang. 29. The Australian, 16 April 1992. 30. RCCAGOM 1992, Transcripts of Evidence, 2 May 1991, p. 2987. 31. West Australian, 26 June 1991. 32. Sunday Times, 13 October 1991. 33. West Australian, 9 October 1992. 34. Interview with Les Ayton. 35. West Australian, 8 April 1992. 36. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 6, pp. 24–9. 37. ibid. 38. West Australian, 9 April 1992. 39. West Australian, 8 April 1992. 40. RCCAGOM 1992, Transcripts of Evidence, 2 November 1992, p. 2507. 41. West Australian, 8 April 1992. 42. West Australian, 16 April 1992. 43. West Australian, 14 July 1992. 44. Sunday Times, 12 May 1991. 45. Light and Humphries, ‘Brian Burke’. 46. West Australian, 6 August 1992. 47. The Age, 15 June 1991. 48. Cited in The Age, 29 July 1993. 49. West Australian, 3 August 1993, 4 February 1995. 50. Sunday Times, 17 November 1991. 51. ibid. 52. M. Saxon, ‘Canberra cover-up on Burke’, Sunday Times, 16 August 1992. 53. M. Saxon, ‘Burke defends his deals’, Sunday Times, 27 September 1992. 54. West Australian, 1 July 1992. 55. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 1, vol. 6, pp. 27–2. 56. Quigley had told the commissioners that his client had not passed on the information because he did not believe the allegations of bribery contained in the tapes were true and he feared the information would be leaked by the police (West Australian, 30 April 1992). 270

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NOTES

57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69.

70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78.

West Australian, 16 July 1994. ibid., 18 July 1994. ibid., 16 July 1994. Sunday Times, 17 July 1994. Interview with Colleen Egan. West Australian, 18 July 1994. West Australian, 16 July 1994. Sunday Times, 26 February 1995. The Australian, 14 August 1994. Sunday Times, 26 February 1995. Sunday Times, 31 July 1994. RCCAGOM 1992, Report, part 2, vol. 7, pp. 1–2, 1–7. F. Harman, ‘The recommendations of the Commission on Government: Did anyone take any notice?’ in The Years of Scandal: Crawley Commissions of Inquiry in Western Australia, ed. A. Peachment, University of Western Australia Press, Perth, 2006, p. 69. West Australian, 27 April 1996. West Australian, 14 February 1997. The Australian, 1 March 1997. Supreme Court of Western Australia 1997, ‘Brian Thomas Burke and The Queen’, Lib No: 970454A. The Australian, 24 July 1997. West Australian, 25 July 1997. ibid., 1 March 1997. M. McCusker, West Australian, 1 March 1997. Interview with Kim Beazley.

Chapter 8 Back from the brink 1. The Australian, 25 July 1997. 2. T. Barrass, ‘The man who knew too much’, Weekend Australian, 24–25 February 2007. 3. C. Batt, ‘Getting a return in the halls of power’, West Australian, 3 March 2007. 4. West Australian, 26 July 1997. 5. M. Fox, ‘United they stand’, Sunday Times Magazine, 24 June 2007. 6. West Australian, 21 July 2006. 7. West Australian, 15 October 2005. 8. Sunday Times, 4 March 2007. 9. M. Price, ‘The man in the panama hat’, Weekend Australian Magazine, 14–15 April 2007. 271

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10. Interview with Dr Carmen Lawrence. 11. The Australian, 27 July 1994. 12. M. Irving and D. Humphries, ‘The ghost of WA Inc,’ The Australian, 27 July 1994. 13. Price, ‘The man in the panama hat’. 14. Price, ‘Brian Burke: A personal reflection’. 15. The Australian, 8 December 2006. 16. Barrass, ‘The man who knew too much’. 17. Interview with Jim McGinty. 18. Cited in C. Batt, ‘Getting a return in the halls of power’, West Australian, 3 March 2007. 19. ibid. 20. Sunday Times, 4 April 2007. 21. Price, ‘The man in the panama hat’. 22. Cited in ibid. 23. Western Australia Legislative Assembly, Hansard, 20 March 2007, www.mp. wa.gov.au/colinbarnett/publications/Hon%20Shelley%20Archer.pdf, p. 1. 24. Corruption and Crime Commission, Transcripts of Evidence, 21 February 2007, pp. 460, 464, 466. 25. West Australian, 10 January 2001. 26. Sunday Times, 4 February 2001. 27. Interview with Colleen Egan. 28. The Australian, 1 February 2001. 29. Cited in Price, ‘The man in the panama hat’. 30. ibid. 31. N. Aisbett, ‘The Life of Brian’, West Australian Weekend Extra, 25 May 2007. 32. A. Malan, ‘Brian Burke deserves better’, West Australian, 28 May 2002. 33. T. Barrass, ‘From rogue hack to press freedom’s hero’, The Australian, 24 May 2007. 34. These bans are discussed later on pages 212 and 217. 35. H. Thomas, ‘How wild west men revived a pariah’, The Australian, 3 March 2007. 36. West Australian, 9 January 2004, 28 January 2004, 27 March 2004. 37. West Australian, 20 December 2002. 38. S. Pennells, ‘Ex-Labor MP’s presence is an irritant’, West Australian, 21 April 2003. 39. T. Barrass, ‘Party’s over for Burke as secret deals exposed’, The Australian, 11 November 2006. 40. ibid. 272

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NOTES

41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

West Australian, 3 April 2003, 4 April 2003. Sunday Times, 4 March 2007. ibid. Cited in Price, ‘The man in the panama hat’. West Australian, 5 April 2003. Western Australian Parliamentary Debates, 2002–03, vol. 384, p. 7861. Interview with Jim McGinty.

Chapter 9

Return of the Godfather

1. Sunday Times, 11 November 2006. 2. Corruption and Crime Commission, Transcripts of Evidence, 26 February 2007, p. 718. 3. T. Barrass and A. O’Brien, ‘Burke scandal fells new minister’, The Australian, 27 February 2007. 4. CCC, Transcripts, 20 February 2007, p. 381. 5. CCC, Transcripts, 26 February 2007, p. 725. 6. Sunday Times, 4 March 2007. 7. J. Poprzeczny, ‘Western Australia: Brian Burke’s shadow government’, News Weekly, 31 March 2007. 8. CCC, Transcripts, 21 February 2007, p. 533. 9. CCC, Transcripts, 20 February 2007, p. 356. 10. Sunday Times, 19 August 2007. 11. Sunday Times, 12 November 2006. 12. CCC, Transcripts, 26 February 2007, p. 755. 13. The Australian, 27 February 2007. 14. The Australian, 16 December 2006. 15. West Australian, 1 March 2007. 16. ibid. 17. ibid. 18. West Australian, 9 November 2006. 19. West Australian, 8 March 2006. 20. Cited in T. Barrass, ‘The man who knew too much’, The Australian, 24 February 2001. 21. CCC, Telecommunications Intercept Material, 9 August 2006. 22. ABC 720 Perth, 10 October, interview with Geoff Hutchinson. 23. ABC News Online, 11 October 2007, www.abc.net.au/news/stories/ 2007/10/11. 24. CCC, Telecommunications Intercept Material, 19 September 2006. 25. CCC, Transcripts, 22 February 2007, p. 594. 26. CCC, Transcripts, 6 December 2006, pp. 1352–3. 273

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27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61.

62. 63.

West Australian, 8 March 2007. West Australian, 1 March 2007. West Australian, 29 June 2005. The Australian, 27 May 2006, 18 November 2006. The Australian, 27 May 2006 West Australian, 3 March 2007. Weekend Financial Review, 3–4 March 2007. The Australian, 5 March 2007. ibid. CCC, Transcripts, 21 February 2007, p. 533. CCC, Telecommunications Intercept Material, 3 March 2006. West Australian, 12 April 2006. CCC, Transcripts, 27 February 2007, p. 927. CCC, Transcripts, 31 October 2006, p. 536. T. Barrass, ‘The man who knew too much’, Weekend Australian, 24–25 February 2007. Sunday Times, 25 February 2007. CCC, Transcripts, 20 February 2007, p. 399. Sunday Times, 12 November 2006. CCC, Transcripts, 20 February 2007, p. 427. CCC, Transcripts, 1 November 2006, p. 737. ibid., p. 738. ibid., p. 746. ibid., p. 474. ibid., p. 756. ibid., 24 October 2006, p. 122. West Australian, 2 November 2006. CCC, Telecommunications Intercept Material, 2 May 2006. ABC, Four Corners, 2007. The Australian, 12 March 2008. CCC, Transcripts, 31 October 2006, pp. 603, 632. West Australian, 7 December 2006. CCC, Transcripts, 31 October 2006, p. 625. West Australian, 7 December 2006. CCC, Transcripts, 6 December 2006, p. 1361. Legislative Council Western Australia, Report, Select Committee of Privilege on a Matter Arising in the Standing Committee on Estimates and Financial Operations, Western Australian Parliament, 2007, p. 106. ibid., p. 85. ibid., p. 110. 274

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NOTES

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.

ibid., p. 117. ibid., p. 197. ibid., p. 144. A. O’Brien, ‘Some like it rotten’, The Australian, 29 March 2007. The Australian, 19 November 2005. The Australian, 18 November 2005. ibid. West Australian, 29 May 2004. O’Brien, ‘Some like it rotten’. The Australian, 5 December 2006. West Australian, 10 October 2007. Corruption and Crime Commission Report on the investigation of alleged public sector misconduct linked to the Smiths Beach development of Yallingup, CCC, Perth, 2007, p. 8. ibid. ibid, p. 87. West Australian, 10 October 2007. The Australian, 10 October 2007. Weekend Australian, 22–23 September 2007. West Australian, 22 November 2007. Sunday Times, 24 June 2007. Sunday Times, 13 October 2007. ibid. ABC 720 Perth, interview with Geoff Hutchinson. Legislative Council Report Select Committee of Privilege on a Matter Arising in the Standing Committee on Estimates and Financial Operations, Western Australian Parliament, 2007. ibid., p. 302. ibid., p. 304. Sydney Morning Herald, 15 November 2007. Western Australian Legislative Assembly, Hansard, 21 November 2007, www.parliament.wa.gov/hansard. West Australian, 5 December 2006. Financial Review, 16 November 2007.

Chapter 10 1. 2. 3. 4.

An uncertain future

ABC 720 Perth, interview with Geoff Hutchinson, 10 October 2007. Weekend Australian, 6–7 October 2007. G. Richardson, Whatever it Takes, Bantam, Sydney, 1994, p. 357. L. Oakes, ‘The incredible Textor’, The Bulletin, 14 August 2007. 275

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5. R. Flanagan, ‘Out of control; the tragedy of Tasmania’s forests’, The Monthly, May 2007. 6. Australian Financial Review, 14 March 2008. 7. B. Hindness, Corruption and Democracy in Australia, Australian National University, Canberra, 2004. 8. C. Lawrence, ‘Railroading Democracy’, Democratic Audit of Australia, Discussion Paper 6/07, School of Social Sciences, Australian National University, Canberra, 2007, p. 3. 9. The Australian, 10 October 2007. 10. K. Mayer, ‘Sunlight as the best disinfectant: Campaign finance in Australia’, Democratic Audit of Australia, Australian National University, Canberra, 2006. 11. Cited in G. Troy, ‘Money and politics, the oldest connection’, Wilson Quarterly, Summer 1997, available at www.arts.mcgill.ca/history/faculty/ troyweb/moneyandpolitics. 12. J. Warhurst, Behind Closed Doors: Politics, scandals and the lobbying industry, UNSW Press, Sydney, 2007. 13. West Australian, 2 April 2008. 14. Letter, Office of Attorney General, Western Australia. 15. Weekend Australian, 8–9 December 2007.

Epilogue 1.

S. Anglo, Machiavelli: A Dissection, Victor Gollancz Ltd, London, 1969, p. 205.

276

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Official documents and reports Corruption and Crime Commission (CCC), Report on the Investigation of Alleged Public Sector Misconduct Linked to the Smiths Beach Development at Yallingup, Perth, 2007 Corruption and Crime Commission, Transcripts of Evidence, www.ccc.wa.gov.au Legislative Council Western Australia, Report, Select Committee of Privilege on a Matter Arising in the Standing Committee on Estimates and Financial Operations, Western Australian Parliament, Perth, 2007 M. McCusker, Report of inspection on a special investigation into Rothwells Ltd., Western Australian Government Printer, Perth Thompson, M., Royal Commission into the Building and Construction Industry. A History of Recent Industrial Relations Events in the Building and Construction Industry. Discussion Paper No 7, Commonwealth of Australia, Canberra, 2002 Royal Commission into Commercial Activities of Government and Other Matters, Report, Part 1, vols 1–6; Part 2, vol. 7 Royal Commission into Commercial Activities of Government and Other Matters 1992, Transcripts of Evidence, 1992 Supreme Court of Western Australia, ‘Brian Thomas Burke and The Queen’, Lib No: 970454A, 1997

Broadcast material ABC 720 Perth Transcript Geoff Hutchinson, 10 October 2007 ABC News Online, www.abc.net.au/news/newsitems/200704/s1888933.htm ‘Lobbyist Grill condemns ‘Public interrogations’, 3 April 2007 277

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ABC Television, ‘The ones that got away’, Four Corners, www.abc.net.au/ 4corners/s160338

Books and articles Acott, K., and Callander, D., ‘The politics of reporting’, Scoop, December 1988 Anglo, S., Machiavelli: A Dissection, Victor Gollancz Ltd, London, 1969 Barry, P., The Rise and Fall of Alan Bond, Bantam Books, Sydney, 1990 Bennett, R., and Poprzeczny, J., ‘Jobs for the boys: Burke’s pillars of power’ in The Burke Ambush: Corporatism and society in Western Australia, ed. P. O’Brien, Apollo Press, Perth, 1986 Beresford, Q., Rob Riley: An Aboriginal Leader’s Quest for Justice, Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra, 2006 Bloch, M., Feudal Society, vol. 1, Routledge and Kegan Paul, London, 1982 Bolton, G., A Fine Country to Starve In, University of Western Australian Press, Perth, 1972 Brett, J., Robert Menzies’ Forgotten People, Macmillian, Melbourne, 1993 Bryce, M., ‘Electoral Reform in Western Australia, 1983–97’, The Parliamentarian, January 1988, pp. 20–6 Burns, J., Leadership, Harper Torchbooks, New York, 1979 Campaign to Save Native Forests, CSNF News, August–September 1987, pp. 6–8 Campaign to Save Native Forests, Time for Change: Proposals for conservation and improved management in the forests of south-western Australia, Australian Conservation Council of WA, Perth, 1987 Carpenter, A., ‘Commission exclusive: The media, popular culture and the Royal Commission’, in Past as Prologue: The Royal Commission into Commercial Activities of Government and Other Matters, eds M. Brogan and H. Phillips, Edith Cowan University, Perth, 1995 Conservation Council of Western Australia, The Forest Debate in Western Australia, WA Conservation Council, Perth, 1999 Day, D., Chifley, Harper Collins, Sydney, 2001 Duncan, B., Crusade or Conspiracy? Catholics and the anti-communist struggle in Australia, University of New South Wales Press, Sydney, 2001 Ewen, S., PR: A Social History of Spin, Perseus Books, New York, 1996 Fitzgerald, R., The Pope’s Battalions: Santamaria, Catholicism and the Labor Split, University of Queensland Press, Brisbane, 2003 FitzSimons, P., Beazley, Harper Collins, Sydney, 1998 Flanagan, R., ‘Out of control, the tragedy of Tasmania’s forests, The Monthly, May 2007, www.themonthly.com.au 278

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Freudenberg, G., A Certain Grandeur: Gough Whitlam in politics, Macmillan, Melbourne, 1977 Gallop, G., Review of The Burke Ambush, Westerly, no. 2, June 1986, pp. 92–3 Grill, J., ‘Policy innovation as imagination: Political origins of the WADC’ in The Business of Government: Western Australia 1983–1990, ed. A. Peachment, Federation Press, Sydney, 1991 Hamilton, J., Burkie: A biography of Brian Burke, St George Books, Perth, 1988 Harman, F., ‘The recommendations of the Commission on Government: Did anyone take any notice’ in The Years of Scandal: Crawley Commissions of Inquiry in Western Australia, ed. A. Peachment, University of Western Australia Press, Perth, 2006 Hindess, B., Corruption and Democracy in Australia, Australian National University, Canberra, 2004 Jennett, C., ‘The great Australian backlash’, National Outlook, December 1985–January 1986, pp. 11–14 Jory, C., The Campion Society and Catholic Social Militancy in Australia, Harpham, Sydney, 1986 Kennedy, P., ‘Managing the Media’ in The Business of Government: Western Australia 1983–1990, ed. A. Peachment, Federation Press, Sydney, 1991 Lawrence, B., ‘W.A. Inc: Why didn’t we hear the alarm bells?’, address to the Samuel Griffith Society, www.samuelgriffith.org.au/papers/html/ volume3/v3chap3.htm Lawrence, C., ‘Railroading Democracy’, Democratic Audit of Australia, Discussion Paper 6/07, School of Social Sciences, Australian National University, Canberra, 2007 McMullin, R., The Light on the Hill, Oxford University Press, Melbourne, 1991 Machiavelli, N., The Prince, Penguin, London, 2003 Mathews, R., ‘A Study in unintended consequences: B.A. Santamaria and the marginalising of social Catholicism in Australia’, The Chesterton Review, 2006, vol. 27, nos 1 and 2, pp. 63–88 Mayer, K., ‘Sunlight as the best disinfectant: campaign finance in Australia’, Democratic Audit of Australia, Australian National University, Canberra, 2006 Miller, T., Children of Trauma: Stressful life events and their effects on children, International University Studies Press, Madison, 1998 Mills, S., The New Machine Men: Polls and persuasion in Australian politics, Melbourne, Penguin, 1986 Murray, R., ‘The Split’ in The Australian Century: Political struggle in the building of a nation, ed. R. Manne, Text Publishing , Melbourne, 1999 O’Brien, J., The Modern Prince: Charles J. Haughey and the quest for power, Merlin Publishing, Dublin, 2002 279

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O’Brien, P., ed., The Burke Ambush: Corporatism and society in Western Australia, Apollo Press, Perth, 1986 O’Brien, P., ‘Western Australia Inc: A state of corruption’, Quadrant, November 1988, pp. 4–18 O’Brien, P., ‘WA’s Executive State 1983–1989’, Economic Witness, September 1989, vol. 39, pp. 1–10 Peachey, B., The Burkes of Western Australia, Peachey Holdings, Perth, 1992 Peachment, A., ‘Wa Inc’ in The Business of Government: Western Australia 1983–1990, ed. A. Peachment, Federation Press, Sydney, 1991 Phillips, H., ‘Political chronicle: Western Australia’, Australian Journal of Politics and History, 1986, vol. 32, no. 2, pp. 294–303 Richardson, G., Whatever it Takes, Bantam, Sydney, 1994 Sharp, C., Using the forests: Exploring a green paradigm for sustainable development of Western Australia, Murdoch University, Perth, 1995 Southwell, M., ‘Burkie’s way with words—and journos’, Scoop, December 1987, pp. 3–4 Sykes, T., The Bold Riders: Behind Australia’s corporate collapse, Allen & Unwin, Sydney, 1994 Thompson, M., ‘A history of recent industrial relations events in the Australian building and construction industry’, Royal Commission into the Building and Construction Industry, Discussion Paper No. 7, 2002 Troy, G., ‘Money and politics the oldest connection’, Wilson Quarterly, Summer, 1997, available at www.arts.mcgill.ca/history/faculty/troyweb/moneyand politics Underwood, R., Old Growth Foresters: The lives and times of Western Australian foresters, a personal account, York Gum Publishing, Perth, 2006 Warhurst, J., Behind Closed Doors: Politics, scandals and the lobbying industry, UNSW Press, Sydney, 2007 White, M., Machiavelli: A man misunderstood, Abacus, London, 2005 Williams, T., Huey Long, Vintage Books, New York, 1981 Young, S., and Tham, J., Political Finance in Australia: A skewed and secretive system, Democratic Audit of Australia, Report No. 7, School of Social Sciences, Australian National University, Canberra, 2006

Unpublished material Alexander, I., interview, Western Australian Parliamentary History Project, Library Board of Western Australia, ‘Hon Ian Alexander’, 1998 Chamberlain, F., ‘Report Re Position of Mr T.P. Burke’, unpublished, 1960 Chamberlain, H., The Life and Times of Joe Chamberlain Socialist Extraordinaire, State Library of Western Australia, Perth, n.d. 280

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Davies, R., interview, Western Australian Parliamentary History Project, Library Board of Western Australia, ‘Hon Ronald Davies’, 1994 Eliot, L., interview, Western Australian Parliamentary History Project, Library Board of Western Australia, ‘Hon Lyla Elliot’, 1987 Tonkin, A., interview, Western Australian Parliamentary History Project, Library Board of Western Australia, ‘Hon. Arthur Tonkin’, 1988 Wilson, K., interview, Western Australian Parliamentary History Project, Library Board of Western Australia, ‘Hon Keith Wilson’, 1994

Newspaper features articles Aisbett, N., ‘Burke looks back—Burke’s who’s who’, West Australian, 1 June 2002 Aisbett, N., ‘The life of Brian’, West Australian Weekend Extra, 25 May 2007 Bai, M., ‘The poverty platform’, New York Times Magazine, 10 June 2007 Barass, T., ‘From rogue hack to press freedom’s hero’, The Australian, 24 May 2007 Barrass, T., ‘Party’s over for Burke as secret deals exposed’, The Australian, 11 November 2007 Barrass, T., ‘The man who knew too much’, Weekend Australian, 24–25 February 2007 Barrass, T., and O’Brien, A., ‘Burke scandal fells new minister’, The Australian, 27 February 2007 Batt, C., ‘Getting a return in the halls of power’, West Australian, 3 March 2007 Cohen, D., ‘The strife of Brian’, The Age, 28 February 2007 Conway, R., ‘The rise and decline of the ’80s man’, The Bulletin, 21 May 1991 Easdown, G., ‘Premier of propaganda’, Herald-Sun, 14 June 1991 Fetherston, J., ‘Politics and family and running mates for Burke’, Pulse Bunbury ALP News, January 1985 Fox, M., ‘United they stand’, Sunday Times Magazine, 24 June 2007 Graham, D., ‘At the back of Burke, the desert’, The Age, 24 February 1988 Graham, D., ‘A four-on-the-floor politician bows out’, Sydney Morning Herald, 16 July 1994 Grattan, M., ‘Hawke stumbles in the bog of mates and money’, The Age, 11 May 1991 Hamilton, J., ‘Enigmatic premier’, West Australian, 1 January 1985 Horin, A., ‘How Brian Burke has won the west’, National Times, 11–17 November 1983 Humphries, D., ‘Connell: I gave ? million to PM’s fund’, Sydney Morning Herald, 1991 Humphries, D., Ryan, C., and Lyons, J., ‘WA Inc’, Sydney Morning Herald, 30 March 1991 281

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Irving, M. and Humphries, D., ‘The ghost of WA Inc’, The Australian, 27 July 1994 Lampe, A., and Ryan, C., ‘How Laurie sank a bank’, Sydney Morning Herald, 28 January 1989 Light, D., and Humphries, D., ‘Brian Burke’, Sydney Morning Herald, 27 April 1991 Light, D., and Humphries, D., ‘Connell gets his chance to even the score’, The Age, 13 April 1991 Light, D., and Humphries, D., ‘Last resort Laurie’s hour of revenge’, Sydney Morning Herald, 13 April 1991 Loxley, S., ‘Life after Brian’, Weekend Financial Review, 4 March 1988 Malan, A., ‘Chalice of lost love for Labor’s leaders’, West Australian, 26 October 1996 Mayman, J., ‘With a nod and a WA Inc’, Weekend Australian, 10–11 March 2007 McCrann, T., ‘The rise and demise of Laurie Connell’, The Weekend Australian, 1996 McGeough, P., ‘Brian Burke’, West Australian, 18 February 1984 McGeough, P., Ryan, C., and Light, D., ‘Pollies and their mates: Where the buck stops’, Sydney Morning Herald, 1 August 1990 O’Brien, A., ‘Some like it rotten’, The Australian, 29 March 2007 O’Brien, P., ‘Doing Deals’, Time, 22 April 1991 Oakes, L., ‘The incredible Textor’, The Bulletin, 14 August 2007 Pennells, S., ‘Ex-Labor MP’s presence is an irritant’, West Australian, 21 April 2003 Poprzeczny, J., ‘Overdue steps to ensure open government’, News Weekly, 10 November 2007 Poprzeczny, J., ‘Western Australia: Brian Burke’s shadow government’, News Weekly, 31 March 2007 Price, M., ‘Brian Burke: A personal reflection’, Western Review, March 1999 Price, M., ‘The man in the panama hat’, Weekend Australian Magazine, 14–15 April 2007 Ramsay, A., ‘Mystery of Burke’s earnings’, Sydney Morning Herald, 24 April 1991 Ramsay, A., ‘The Burke who’ll bring Hawke down’, Sydney Morning Herald, 20 April 1991 Rumley, D., ‘WA Electoral boundaries have built-in bias’, West Australian, 15 April 1980 Saxon, M., ‘Burke defends his deals’, Sunday Times, 27 September 1992 Saxon, M., ‘Burke profits from duty free’, Sunday Times, 27 September 1992 282

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Saxon, M., ‘Canberra cover-up on Burke’, Sunday Times, 16 August 1992 Sheridan, G., ‘Brian Burke—scourge of the Left mediocrity’, The Australian, 9 February 1985 Smark, P., and Skulley, M., ‘State of unholy matrimony—when govt merged with business’, Sydney Morning Herald, 8 November 1988 Stannard, B., ‘Alan Bond: A jack-of-all-trades with a masterful obsession’, The Bulletin, 26 November 1985 Taylor, R., ‘Big Brother Jack’, Canberra Times Sunday Magazine, 28 May 1989 Terry, P., ‘The life of Brian’, The Australian, 23 December 1987 Terry, P., ‘The premier who goes for the open line’, The Australian, 14 January 1986 Thomas, H., ‘How wild west men revived a pariah’, The Australian, 3 March 2007 Verrender, I., and Ryan, C., ‘Dearest enemies’, Sydney Morning Herald, 30 May 1992 Wilkinson, M., ‘Shining a light on the lobbyists’, Sydney Morning Herald, 6 March 2007 Wilkinson, M., ‘The fixer’, The Age, 10 February 1996

283

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INDEX

BB = Brian Burke Abbey Lea Pty Ltd, 196, 236 Abbott, Tony, 73 ABC Radio, 250 ABC’s 7.30 Report, 173 Aboriginal land rights, 31, 36, 75–85, 93 Accountability and Corruption Commission, 214 Adler, Larry, 128 Age, 83, 93, 97, 124–5 AHA Cup at Bunbury, 99, 192 Aisbett, Norman, 211 Alexander, Ian, 103 Allen, Mike, 230, 237 Ambergate Nominees, 184 America’s Cup, 66, 74, 101, 143 Anderson, Warren, 125 ANOP Market Research, 65 Ansbacher Bank, 151–2 Archer, Shelley, 201, 207, 233–4, 241, 244 Armstrong, Paul, 211 Arthur, John, 110 ASIO, 235 Askin, Robert, 246 Australand, 217 Australian, 47, 65, 84, 142, 155, 190, 193, 204, 225 Australian Council of Trade Unions, 7 Australian Electoral Commission, 123 Australian Journalists Association, 115 Australian Petroleum Exploration Association, 82 Australian Services Union, 213 Australian Workers Union, 225 Ayton, Les, 109–13, 158–60, 171, 174, 177–80 Balga, 23, 25, 27–9, 37, 43, 61, 65, 96, 133–4, 183 Ballajura, 203 Barnett, Colin, 207

Barrass, Tony, 211, 213, 218 Barry, Paul, 101, 140 Barry, Ron, 36 Beahan, Michael, 116, 123, 157 Beattie, Peter, 251 Beazley, Kim Jr, 18, 23–5, 27, 32, 37, 39–40, 74, 96, 131, 192, 196 Beazley, Kim Sr, 4, 14 Beckwith, Peter, 128, 144 Bell Resources, 118, 133, 143, 155, 195 Berinson, Joe, 115 Bishops’ Pastoral Letter of 27 April 1955: ‘The Menace of Communism’, 15 Bjelke-Petersen, Joh, 31 Blainey, Geoffrey, 80 BLF, see Builders’ Labourers Federation Bloch, Marc, 58 Bond, Alan access to government, 44, 101, 104, 106, 107 America’s Cup victory, 101 attends fundraising lunch with Bob Hawke, BB, Laurie Connell, Dallas Dempster and John Roberts, 123 BB arranges for Bond to pick up America’s Cup at White House, 74 Bond Corporation, 101, 106–7, 128, 140, 143, 155, 157 Bond Tower, 104–5 connection with BB and Laurie Connell, 103, 105, 106, 107, 119, 127, 133–4 demise of business empire, 143–4 donation to ALP, 117 emerging entrepreneur in BB’s business network, 104 end of relationship with state Labor government, 143 enmity towards Robert Holmes à Court, 118, 119 ‘four-on-the-floor’, 125

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involvement in WA Inc deals, 100–8, 127–9, 133–4, 140, 143–4 Member of the Order of Australia, 122 PICL deal, 140, 143 prison sentence, 195 Rothwells rescue, 128, 129, 133–4, 140 sues state government for $200 million, 143 vice patron of John Curtin Foundation, 60, 125 Borgia, Cesare, 48 Bowler, John, 207, 220–1, 232–3 Boy from Balga, see BB Brabazon, Mark, 230 Brush, Brenda, 106, 116, 123, 135, 174 Brush, Len, 106, 156–7 Bryce, Mal, 15, 33–5, 37, 46, 87–8, 131, 136 Builders’ Labourers Federation (BLF), 61, 200 Bull, Brian, 109, 112, 158 Bunnings, 89 bureaucracy, 56–60, 72, 94, 207–8, 215–16 Burke Ambush, The, 68–9 Burke, Anne (BB’s sister), 5 Burke, Brian ambassador allegations surrounding use of diplomatic bag, 147 BB as ambassador, 138–9, 141, 148–50, 152, 157, 160, 166, 172, 200 car-trading scheme, 149–50 ceases as ambassador, April 1991, 161 commences as ambassador, August 1988, 138 lobbies Bob Hawke for ambassadorship, 135 paid $45 000 more than retiring ambassador, 137 parallel life as ambassador, 138, 149–52 phone calls from Ireland, 141–2, 148 political protection while ambassador, 149, 172 backbencher, 27–30, 32 known as Godfather of Balga, 28–9 lack of interest in policy and political ideas, ideals and causes, 27, 29, 32 preselected and wins seat of Balcatta 1973 (renamed Balga 1974), 25–7 born 25 February 1947, 5 Boy from Balga, 42–3, 183

285

business consultant and lobbyist BB consultant for Lang Hancock, June 1991, 182 BB launches himself as a consultant in 1997, 198–201 BB moves into lobbying and forms partnership with Julian Grill, 204–8, 211–14, 215–34, 236–41, 243, 246–7, 249, 250–1 parallel life as business consultant/lobbyist, 197, 208, 218, 221, 233 Premier Alan Carpenter lifts ban on BB and Julian Grill in 2006, 219 Premier Geoff Gallop announces ban on BB and Julian Grill in April 2003, 114 state government creates register of lobbyists and blacklists BB and Julian Grill, 243 business deals as premier Burswood casino, 108–15 Fremantle Gas & Coke, 118–21 northern mining, 106–7 business style, see operating style Catholic background and its influence, 2, 5, 8, 12, 17–19, 23, 43, 59, 64, 67, 71, 73, 93, 103, 130–1, 181, 234, 236, 244 character, personality and skills, 7, 22, 24, 26–9, 32–3, 35, 38, 40, 48–54, 56, 62–5, 69–70, 73–4, 103, 107, 125–6, 128, 130–3, 138, 150, 183, 197, 199–200, 202, 204, 208, 215–17, 221, 232, 244–6 children (BB’s), 23, 28, 53, 65, 124, 139, 191, 193, 199, 235, 241 conservative values, 47, 93 discomfort with Aboriginal people, 77–8 donations, see political donations early years growing up, 5–7, 14, 17–20 elections, election campaigns, role in 14–15, 27, 33, 35–6, 40–2, 44–6, 66, 77, 86–9, 98, 118, 123–5, 133, 148, 195, 209–10, 213–14, 220, 222, 224–5, 229–30, 232, 247–8 entrepreneurial side, 24–5, 29, 42, 97, 105, 107–8, 118, 149–50, 152, 167, 182–3, 245 fundraising, see political donations Godfather of ALP election funding, 118 health (mental and physical), 5–7, 70, 80, 167, 181, 194–5

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idolisation of Chifley, 12 improper use of government/departmental documents, 218–20 influence of father, 1–2, 10, 14, 18–21, 25, 35, 71, 93, 197, 236, 244 influence of the Split, 8, 17–21, 71 influencing government, 106–10, 121–2, 136–7, 211–13, 217–24, 226–34 journalist, 22–5 lack of engagement in policy and political ideas, ideals and causes, 27, 29, 32, 35, 64, 77, 93 Leader of the Opposition attack on travel expenses, 41 elected Leader of the Opposition in 1981, 20, 35 image, 35–6 influence of Huey Long, 37–8 mastery of the media and marketing, 35–6, 40–1, 44, 46 origins of donations from entrepreneurs, 42, 44–6 Leader’s Accounts, 115–18, 120, 123, 126, 158–60, 163, 171, 174–5, 195 leadership style, see operating style Marist Brothers, 17, 67, 234 marriage to Sue, September 1965, 23 operating style, 19, 25–8, 32–3, 36–40, 47–72, 73–94, 96–7, 106–8, 114–17, 126, 129–34, 136–7, 164, 167–8, 199–200, 205–46, 248–50 poetry, 71, 148 political donations, 27, 29–30, 42–6, 60, 62, 68, 72, 96, 108–9, 113, 117, 121, 123–6, 133, 158–60, 163–4, 166–7, 174–5, 177, 184, 195, 224–5, 229–30, 247–8 powerbroker (ALP), 219, 223–6, 235, 244, 246–7, 250 pragmatist, 42, 47–8, 64, 74–5, 78, 80, 84–5, 87, 89, 92–3, 103 premier abandons Aboriginal land rights, 75–85, 93 abandons environment movement and conservation values, 88–93 elected as premier 1983, 46 establishes WADC/Exim, 67–8 involvement in Rothwells rescue, 127–31, 135

286

lack of interest in policy and political ideas, ideals and causes, 64, 93 parallel life as premier, 1, 68–9, 96, 98, 100, 106–9, 114–16, 118–21, 123–4, 126–8, 130–1, 134–7, 156–8, 160, 162, 187 personal life, 70–1 plays politics with electoral reform, 75, 85–8 political beliefs, 18, 63–4 relationship with business, 45, 96, 98 relationship with cabinet, 62–3 relationship with entrepreneurs, 98–104, 121–3, 128, 134 relationship with unions, 60–1 retires as premier and from parliament, 25 February 2008, 134–6 prison, 6, 192–6, 198–9, 200, 210, 246 pro-business policy and relationships with business community, 41–5, 60, 66–9, 74, 96–8, 100–8, 115, 118–21, 123, 127–8, 144–5, 159, 167, 198 public image, 22, 29, 33, 35–6, 41, 48, 50–3, 75, 137, 166, 183, 208–11, 242 purchase of house in Balga, 23 pursuit of personal wealth, 123–4, 126, 148–50, 171, 174–7, 181–6, 196–7, 212, 214–15, 219, 233–4, 236, 244, 246, 250 relationship with media, 25–6, 34–6, 40–1, 47–8, 52–6, 58, 63–4, 65–6, 72–4, 92–5, 115, 132–4, 139, 157–8, 166–7, 171–2, 181, 191, 199, 208, 209–11, 216, 225, 228, 236, 238–40, 245 reputation general, 24–5, 73, 124, 202, 217 loss of, 61, 136, 159, 184, 186, 236, 243, 246 resignation from Labor Party, end 2006, 236 self-justification, 135–6, 160, 166–8, 172, 187, 196–7, 199, 209, 211, 234, 238–9, 241–2, 244 stamp collecting, 6, 40, 70, 126, 175–7, 187 stealing from Labor Party, legal action, 96, 187, 194–6, 198, 246 touted as future Labor prime minister, 136 travel rorts, legal action, 187–92

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vindication of father, 1, 17–18, 20–1, 25, 71, 93, 236 weight problem, 6–7, 23, 32, 36, 40, 50, 69–70, 193, 223 Burke, Frankie (BB’s younger brother), 5–7, 16, 131, 206 Burke government, 17, 57, 67–8, 77, 90, 101, 104, 106, 111, 140, 144, 159, 171, 182, 188 Burke, Madeline, nee Orr (Brian’s mother), 3, 5, 7, 19 Burke, Matthew (BB’s son), 199 Burke, Peter (BB’s son), 124, 199 Burke, Samantha (BB’s niece), 235 Burke, Sarah (BB’s daughter), 235 Burke, Sue (BB’s wife), 23, 29, 53, 64, 70, 139, 148, 152, 181, 183, 191, 193, 236 Burke, Terry (BB’s elder brother) alleged meeting with illegal casino owners, 159–60 assisted BB’s election in 1973, 26–7 BB’s protector, 38 eldest child, 5 elected to state parliament, 1968, 25 financial relationship with BB, 123–4, 177, 183–4, 246 fundraiser, 46, 123, 159, 165 has $100 000 deposited in Rothwells, 129 influence of father, 14 political ambitions of daughter Samantha, 235 pulls money out of Rothwells, 135 role in campaign against Liberal Party, 156–7, 186–7 support for BB behind the scenes, 35, 46 with Frankie Burke when he is hit by a car, 206 Burke, Tom (BB’s father) battles within ALP, 2 becomes Labor outcast 1957, 16 boycott of 1955 Federal Labor Party Conference, 13–14 brokering with local interest groups, 14 Catholics, Catholic Church, 3, 8, 12, 14–15 Cold War, 7–8 commitment to family, 6 conflict with Chamberlain, 12–16 early interest in politics, 2–3 employment outside politics, 2–3, 15–17 family background, 2 friendship with Kim Beazley Sr, 4

influence on BB, 25 links with Jack Walsh, 45 loss of seat of Perth, December 1955, 15 Member for Perth, 3–6 offers resignation to Chifley, 11 opposition to communism, 8, 10–11 readmission to Labor Party, 1964, 16 relationship with Chifley, 3–4, 11–12 Slow Learning Children’s Group, 206 support for White Australia Policy, 4 supports BB to gain job at West Australian Newspapers Ltd, 23 the Split, 17–19, 71 working class values, 4 Burke, Tom (BB’s son), 199 Burkie, John Hamilton’s published account of BB’s life, 137 Burns, Anne, 151–2 Burswood casino, 95, 108–15, 135, 158 business culture during WA Inc, 96–133, 142 Busselton, Shire of, 2005 election, 229–30, 232 CALM, see Conservation and Land Management, Department of Cameron, Clyde, 11–12 Cameron, Rod, 65 Campaign to Save Native Forests (CSNF), 88–9 Canal Rocks, 217, 229–30 Canning Vale Prison, 192 Canning Vale Remand Centre, see Canning Vale Prison Carpenter, Alan, 173, 211–12, 223, 243 Carpenter government, 220 casino, see Burswood casino Casino Control Committee, 111–12 casinos (illegal), 159–160 Catholic Church, 3, 7, 8–9, 12, 15, 93, 99, 130, 244 Catholic Church Against the Twentieth Century, The, 12 Catholic distributism, see distributism Cayman Islands, 151–2 Cazaly Resources Limited, 217–18, 232–4, 239–41, 243 CCC, see Corruption and Crime Commission Cecchele, David, 217–19 CFMEU, see Construction, Forestry, Mining and Engineering Union

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Chamber of Commerce and Industry (State), 212 Chamberlain, ‘Joe’, 9–10, 12–16, 21, 26–7, 32, 48, 60, 71, 201 Chaney, Fredrick, 15 Chifley, Ben, 3, 4, 9, 11, 12–14 Christmas Creek homestead, 78 Civil Service Association, 74 Clark, Nobby, 128 class, see social class Cold War, 7–8 Cole Royal Commission, 200 Collier Labor government, 3 communism anti-communist rhetoric, 9–11 appeal to working class, 3, 7 Bishops’ Pastoral Letter of 27 April 1955: ‘The Menace of Communism’, 15 Communist Party Dissolution Bill, 9–11 union movement, 7–8, 10 Companies Act, 112 Connell, Laurie access to BB and government, 100–1, 137 association with Bevan Lawrence, 144–5 background, 98 banking practices, 122–3 BB’s scapegoat, 136 board member, National Gallery, 125 Burswood casino deal, 109 calls for royal commission, 154 charged with fraud, 154 donations, register of, 249 donations to, and fundraising for, ALP, 44–5, 108, 116–17, 121, 123 emerging entrepreneur, 43–5 facilitates early WA Inc deals, 98 financial adviser to BB, 100, 106, 127 Fremantle Gas and Coke deal, 118–21 investigation into money laundering, 177–8 involvement in racing, 98–9, 122 ‘Last Resort Laurie’, 99 Northern Mining deal, 106–8 operates as link between BB and entrepreneurs, 98 operating style, 98–100, 121–2, 130, 134 PICL deal, 140 relationship with BB and Alan Bond, 103, 107, 122, 129–30, 133, 145 relationship with Jack Walsh, 98, 144–5 relationship with John Roberts, 102 Rothwells, 127–31, 134, 140, 144

serves prison term, 192 vice patron of John Curtin Foundation, 60, 125 witness to royal commission, 162–6, 171–2, 174 Conservation and Environment Committee, 88–9, 91 Conservation and Land Management, Department of, 89–92, 223 Conservation Council of Western Australia, 91 conservation movement, see environment movement Construction, Forestry, Mining and Engineering Union, 200, 244 consultants/lobbyists (other than Burke and Grill), 36, 56, 206, 217 Conway, Ronald, 105 Cooke, Joe, 14 Coolbellup Hotel, 200 Corporate Affairs Commissioner, 112 Corporate Affairs Department, 112, 114 corporatism, 41, 66–9, 96 corrupt processes, misconduct, 61, 69, 95, 97, 107, 126, 146–8, 156, 163, 174–5, 180, 185–7, 217–18, 230–1, 237, 245–8, 250–2 Corruption and Crime Commission (CCC), 90, 203–4, 206–7, 214, 217–20, 222–5, 227, 229, 231–9, 241, 247, 250–1 Corruption and Crime Commission Act, 250–1 Corruption and Crime Commission (CCC) first report, October 2007, 237 Court, Charles, 30–1, 35–6, 41–5, 76, 104, 157 Court government (Charles), 31, 41, 76 Court government (Richard), 194 Court of Appeal, 192, 195, 198 Court of Criminal Appeal, see Court of Appeal Court, Richard, 194, 210 Cox, Wally, 226–7, 230–1, 237 CPA Australia, 212 Crichton-Brown, Noel, 209–10, 227–9, 233, 241 Crime and Misconduct Commission (Queensland), 251 Criminal Code, 115, 170, 251 crony capitalism, 69, 96, 102, 107, 111, 118, 130, 140, 245

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CSNF, see Campaign to Save Native Forests Current Affair, A, 209 Curtin, John, 3, 4, 60, 117, 125 Daily News, The, 40, 81, 110, 115, 155 Daly, Fred, 12 Dans, Des, 110 Davies, Ron, 30, 33–5, 116 Dawkins, John, 24 democracy, 30–1, 38, 41, 58, 86, 94, 202, 218, 251 Democratic Audit of Australia, 249 Democratic Labor Party (DLP), 13, 16 Dempster, Dallas, 95, 103, 108–14, 117, 123, 140, 144, 150, 173, 180 Depression, Great, see Great Depression Devine, Frank, 142 Director of Public Prosecutions (DPP), 112, 189–90 distributism, 18, 67, 93 DLP, see Democratic Labor Party donations, see BB fundraising Dowding government, 145–6 Dowding, Peter, 134–7, 140–3, 146, 152 DPP, see Director of Public Prosecutions Dublin, 137–9, 141, 147, 149, 151, 161, 185, 200 Dunstan, Don, 34 Echelon Resources Limited, 232–4 Edwards, Graham, 53, 226, 235 Edwards, Judy, 213 Edwards, Kevin, 57 Egan, Colleen, 190–1, 193, 210 Elders, 142 election campaigns, see Labor Party Electoral Commission, see Australian Electoral Commission electronic surveillance, 90, 156–8, 179–80, 182, 187, 206, 208, 214, 218, 220, 223, 233–5, 237–9, 251 Ellingsen, Peter, 97 Elliott, Lyla, 12 Endeavour Mining, 106 entrepreneurs, 1, 44, 46, 97, 102, 104–5, 107, 114–19, 125, 133, 142, 167, 245 Environment and Conservation, Department of, 230–1 Environment, Department of, see Environment and Conservation, Department of environment movement, 88–93

Environmental Protection Authority (state) (EPA), 213, 226–7, 230 EPA, see Environmental Protection Authority Estate Mortgage, 142 Evans, Gareth, 147–8, 184–5 Evatt, Bert, 13, 15 Exim Corporation, 67–8 Fairfax newspapers, 133 Farina, Adele, 224, 232 farming industry, 81 Farrell, Darcy, 25, 36, 158, 179 federal government (in general), 18, 77 Federal Hotels, 109 federal Labor Party, 225 federal Labor (under Hawke), 47, 66, 75–8, 83, 92, 125, 137, 145, 149, 155, 172 federal Labor (under Rudd), 248, 250 federal Labor (under Whitlam), 25, 35 federalism, 18, 42 Fels, Anthony, 234, 241 finance brokers, 216, 227–8 Firth, Brian, 155 Fischer, D.P., 107–8 FitzSimons, Peter, 27 ‘Flying Wedge’ (Brian Burke, Mal Bryce and Arthur Tonkin), 34 FOI, see freedom of information Foreign Affairs, Department of, 141, 147, 149, 184–5 Forest Industries Association, 247 forest industry, 88–92 Fortescue Metals Group, 217 ‘four-on-the-floor’ (Burke’s label for businessmen Alan Bond, Laurie Connell, Dallas Dempster, Yosse Goldberg and John Roberts), 98, 103, 109, 114–15, 125, 165 free market thinking, ideas, 45, 66–7 freedom of information (FOI), 185, 189, 248 Fremantle Gas and Coke, 118–21 Freudenberg, Graham, 14–15 Frewer, Paul, 230, 237 fundraising, see BB fundraising Gale, Keith, 68 Gallagher, Norm, 61 Gallop, Geoff, 69, 92, 203, 206–7, 210–12, 214, 217, 219, 228 Gallop government, 59, 88, 90, 203–7, 211, 220

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Genting, 108–10, 112–14 GESB, see Government Employees Superannuation Board GMO, see Government Media Office Godfather, 202 Godfather ( Jack Walsh), 45 Godfather of ALP election funding, 118 Godfather of Balga, 28, Godfather of the Labor Party, 203 gold mining industry, 165 gold tax (federal), 165–6 Goldberg, Yosse, 102, 117, 119–20, 126, 174 Goldcorp, 126 Gollin Group, 68 Government Employees Superannuation Board (GESB), 105, 130, 156 Government Media Office (GMO), 55 government policy, see Labor Party Graham, Duncan, 93 Graham, Herb, 26 Great Depression, 2, 4–5, 10, 37, 128 Grill, Julian background, 205 ban initiated on ministers dealing with Grill and BB, 214 ban lifted, 219 blacklisted by Carpenter government, 243 comments on BB’s inability to resist the entrepreneurial role, 97 criticised by CCC for undermining public interest, 237 deceived by BB, 208 definition of corruption and misconduct, 250–1 forms partnership with BB, 204 fundraising capacity, 224 increasing wealth through shares, 233–4 investigation findings, 237 investigations of lobbying activities, 232, 234–5, 239 lobbying activities, 212–14, 216–18, 220, 229, 231–4 media coverage on ban, 211 media offensive after CCC findings, 238–9 observations on media, 173 operating style as lobbyists, 205–46, 249–50 opposes electoral reform, 87 partnership arrangements with BB, 205 placed under electronic surveillance, 234–5, 238–9, 251

reflects on BB’s patronage to personal staff, 57–8 Groupers, see Industrial Groups Guinness & Mahon (Irish merchant bank), 151–2, 178 Gunns Ltd, 247–8 Hall, Stephen, 220, 229–30, 237 Hamersley Iron Pty Ltd, 67 Hamilton, John (Burke’s biographer), 18, 20, 33, 49, 134, 137 Hamilton, John (director Rothwells), 142 Hammond, Kevin, 191, 235–6 Hancock, Gina, 183 Hancock, Lang, 45, 182 Hanly, Peter, 231 Harrahs, 109 Hassell, Bill, 121 Haughey, Charles, 150–1, 178 Hawke, ‘Bert’, 14 Hawke, Bob, 66, 74, 77, 79–80, 82–3, 123, 125, 135–7, 148, 150, 165–6, 172, 192 Hawke government, 66, 74, 76, 80, 167, 245 Hawkins, Belinda, 182 Hayden, Bill, 202 Hobby, Danny, 99 Holding, Clyde, 76, 79, 81 Holmes à Court, Robert, 104, 118–20, 128, 133–4, 143, 195 Horgan, John, 67, 150, 180 Howard, John, 200, 245, 248 Hutchinson, Geoff, 239 IAG, see Independent Action Group ICAC, see Independent Commission Against Corruption Iemma government, 249 Il Trovatore illegal casino, 159 IMF Australia, 218 Independent Action Group (IAG), 229–30 Independent Commission Against Corruption (ICAC), 247 Industrial Groups (Groupers), 8–9, 13, 15 Industry and Resources, Department of, 218 Inside Cover, 177 Ireland, 135–9, 141–2, 150, 152, 157, 160, 166–8, 172, 176–8, 184, 199, 242 James, Dan, 14 John Curtin Foundation, 60, 117, 125 Journalists Association, see Australian Journalists Association

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Kalgoorlie sting, 98 Keating, Paul, 73, 93, 125 Kennedy, John F., 34 Killiney Pty Ltd, 236 Kimberley Diamonds, 217 Kingsford Smith, 176 Kohler, Alan, 143–4 Komsomolsk (Eastern Siberia), 182 Kucera, Bob, 241 Labor government, see Burke, Collier, Dowding, Gallop, Hawke, Lennon, Rudd and Tonkin governments and federal Labor Labor Party branches, 10, 59, 61, 201, 203 Catholic Church, 8–9, 12–13, 15–16 centre, 61, 201, 204 communism, 3, 8–9, 15 Communist Party Dissolution Bill, 9–11 Conservation and Environment Committee, 88–9 donations, see BB political donations election campaigns, 9, 14, 27, 33, 35–6, 40, 44, 46, 62, 98, 117–18, 121, 123–4, 165, 195, 210, 213–14, 220, 222–4, 247–8 entrepreneurs, 1, 43–6, 96–8, 102, 104–5, 107, 114–19, 125, 133, 142, 144, 163, 245 environment, conservation, see environment movement Federal Conference 1955 and party split, 13 fundraising, see BB political donations Leader’s Accounts, see BB Leader’s Accounts Left, 7–10, 14, 18, 33, 59, 62, 71, 75, 82, 93–4, 201, 204 marketing, 34–5, 117 media, see media; BB relationship with media National Executive, 235 nationalising the banks 1940s, 4–5 New South Wales Right, 150, 202 opinion polling, see opinion polling/polls policy abolition of death penalty, 64, 75 Aboriginal land rights, 75–84 conserving old growth forests, 75, 88–90

corporatism, 41, 66–7, 96 decriminalisation of prostitution, 54 electoral reform, 75, 85–8 equal opportunity, 75 gold tax (federal), 165–6 increasing social spending, 75 iron ore, 233 modernise government, 57 pro-business, 41–2, 66, 96 regional housing, 29 small business and technology, 75 Western Power, 213 political donations, see BB political donations political marketing, see marketing Right, 8–10, 15–16, 32, 59–62, 66, 150, 201–4, 206, 225, 232 Split, the, 8–14, 17, 18, 26 Western Australian State Executive, 11, 13, 26, 60, 62 Lang, Margot, 176, 181 Laurance, Ian, 156 Lawrence, Bevan, 144–8, 152–5 Lawrence, Carmen, 92, 144, 152–5, 157, 167–8, 187–8, 201–2, 248 Lawrence, Ern, 152 Lawrence, Mary, 152 Lee-Steer, Ernest, 60 Legislative Council Select Committee into Cazaly Resources Limited (WA), 233–4, 239–41 Lennon Labor government, 247 Liberal/National Opposition (federal), 165, 172 Liberal Opposition (state), 55–6, 63–4, 115, 121, 129, 131, 153, 156, 227 Liberal Party, 36, 42, 45, 52, 59, 75, 80, 88, 100–2, 109, 111, 113, 144–6, 153–4, 156, 163, 202, 209, 216, 227, 229, 245, 248 Liberal Party donations, 42, 113, 216, 248 Lightfoot, Ross, 156–7 Lloyd, Tony, 24, 130–2, 144 lobbying industry, 205, 217, 249 lobbyists code of conduct, 250 other than Burke and Grill, 206, 217 register, 243, 250 regulation of, in Canada, 250 logging old growth forests, 88–90 London, 111, 144, 176, 178

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Long, Huey, 37–40, 43–4, 46–7, 51, 56, 58, 63, 72, 78, 97, 116–17, 128, 139, 167–8, 245, 249 Long, Russell, 249 Machiavelli, 48, 92, 157, 245 MacKinnon, Barry, 108, 129, 206 Macquarie Bank, 220 Malan, Andre, 211 Malcolm, David, 89, 196 Manhattan, Arvo, 12 Mannix, Archbishop, 9 Marlborough, Norm, 33, 207, 219, 221–3, 228, 231, 237–9 Martin, Brian, 164, 170, 174–7, 195 Martin, Robert, 156 Masons, 59 Maumill, Bob, 45, 53, 98, 110–11 Mayman, Jan, 100, 115 McAlpine, Alistair (later Lord), 43 McCarthy, Brett, 210 McCusker, James, 60 McCusker, Malcolm, 195–6 McGinty, Jim, 59–60, 62, 202, 206, 214, 250–1 McKechnie, John, 180, 187, 189, 191–2 McKenzie, David, 228–30 McLernon, Hugh, 160, 164, 168 McMahon, Nathan, 232–4 McRae, Tony, 223–4 media, 76, 79–80, 91, 102, 114, 127, 132, 142, 147, 154, 163, 169–70, 173, 192–3, 212, 218, 243, 247–9, 252, see also BB relationship with media Menzies, Robert, 9–11 Michael, Mick, 105 Miller, Geoffrey, 144, 189–91 mining industry, 76–83, 105, 205, 217, 220 Miscellaneous Workers Union (later Australian Liquor Hospitality & Miscellaneous Workers Union), 33, 62 misconduct, see corrupt processes, misconduct Moloney, Ronnie, 185 money laundering, 151, 178–9 Morgan, Beryle, 221–2 Movement, the, 8, 10, 13 Muller, Judge, 194 Multiplex, 60, 95, 102, 105, 109, 200 Murray, Paul, 172–3, 209–10 NAB, see National Australia Bank NAC, see National Aboriginal Conference

National Aboriginal Conference (NAC), 81, 83 National Australia Bank (NAB), 128–9, 131 National Companies and Securities Commission (NCSC), 143–4 National Gallery, 125, 166 National Party (state), 88 National Times, 100, 115 National Trust, 104 NCSC, see National Companies and Securities Commission Ngaanatjarra, 76 Nixon, Richard, 41 Noonkanbah, 75–6 Northern Mining, 106–7 Oakhill Pty Ltd, 99 O’Brien, Amanda, 218 O’Brien, Patrick ‘Paddy’, 52, 64, 68–9, 146 Observation City, 157 O’Connor, Ray, 43, 157, 187 Office of the Premier, see Premier and Cabinet, Department of opinion polling/polls, 26, 34–5, 52, 65–6, 73, 80, 154 Orchidson, Keith, 82 Packer, Kerry, 125 Parker, David, 115, 119–21, 195 parliament, 1, 3, 4–5, 8–9, 11, 14, 25–6, 37, 40–1, 46, 50, 53, 57, 60, 62–3, 67, 70, 72, 76, 83–7, 92, 94, 108, 121, 123, 134, 136, 143, 147, 165, 185, 204, 207–8, 211, 220–1, 224, 227, 234, 239, 240, 241 Parmelia Resources, 183 pastoral lobby, 83 patronage, 38, 47, 56–60, 67, 75, 88, 90, 201–3, 207–8, 216, 218, 220–7, 230, 245 payroll tax, 212 Peachey, Brian, 17 pearling industry, 225 Pendal, Phillip, 44, 56 People for Fair and Open Government, 145–8, 153–5 Perugino’s, 214, 225–6, 231 Petersen, Joh Bjelke, 31, 247 Petrochemical Industries Co Ltd (PICL), 140–1, 143–6, 152 phone tapping, see electronic surveillance

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Planning and Infrastructure, Department of, 230 PMA, see Precious Metals Australia Police Act 1892, 1979 amendments, 31 police (federal), 156 police (state), 3, 30, 31, 55, 58–9, 76, 99, 109, 110, 112–13, 115, 147, 157–8, 160, 169, 171–2, 174, 177–80, 187–9, 241 Police Union, 168, 188 policy, see Labor Party political fundraising, see BB fundraising Poprzeczny, Joseph ‘Joe’, 17, 19, 68–9, 219 Portman Mining, 212–13 Precious Metals Australia (PMA), 217, 220 Premier and Cabinet, Department of, 51, 55, 57, 69, 90, 100, 114, 121, 154, 174, 187–8 Premier’s Department, see Premier and Cabinet, Department of Premier’s Office, see Premier and Cabinet, Department of Price, Matt, 51, 207 prison union, 169, 188 property developers, 101, 217, 247 public service, see bureaucracy Pyramid Building Society, 142 Quigley, John, 168–71, 175, 179–82, 186–96 Quintex, 142 R & I Bank, 107 racing industry, 98–9, 122, 212 Railcorp (NSW), 247 Reagan, President, 74 Republican Party, 245 Resources Development, Department of, 106–7 resources industry, 81–2, 84, 105 Reynolds, Kevin, 61, 200–1, 203, 209, 226, 243–4 Richardson, Graham, 93, 125–6, 166, 172, 245 Riley, Rob, 81, 83 Rio Tinto, 231–2, 237, 239 Ripper, Eric, 212 Roberts, John, 60, 102, 105, 109, 117, 123 Roberts, Sue, 52, 54 Robson, Derek, 200 Rocket Racer, 122 Rothwells Investment Bank, 44, 99, 122–3, 127–35, 140, 142, 143–4, 177

Royal Commission into WA Inc, 17, 59, 61, 96, 107, 109, 111–12, 114, 121, 123–4, 126, 130–2, 135, 141–2, 144, 148, 150, 154–5, 157–8, 160–86, 193, 211 Royal Commission into WA Inc Report, 144, 183–4, 194 Rudd, Kevin, 225–6 Rudd Labor government, 248, 250 Sadleir, George, 195 Santamaria, B.A., 8, 12, 15 Saxon, Martin, 110–11, 113–15, 123–4, 147, 149, 151–2, 155–60, 183–6 SBS-TV, 182 SCEFO, see Standing Committee on Estimates and Financial Operation Schultz, Beth, 89, 91 Sculley, Mark, 104–5 Seaman, Paul, 79–81 Seaman Report, 80–1 Seccombe, Mike, 165 SECWA, see State Energy Commission services union, see Australian services union SGIO, see State Government Insurance Office Shannon Basin, 88–9 Shea, Syd, 88–92, 223 Sheridan, Greg, 47, 65 Shervington, Vince, 51, 158, 174 Shop, Distributive and Allied Employees Association (Shoppies), 201, 235 Shoppies, see Shop, Distributive and Allied Employees Association Shorten, Bill, 225–6 Shovelanna, 233–4 Siberia, 182 Singleton, Brian, 170 Slow Learning Children’s Group (later Activ Foundation), 16, 130–1, 139, 206 Smark, Peter, 104–5 Smith, Alan, 112–13 Smith, Robert, 156–8, 160, 179–80 Smith, Stephen, 203 Smiths Beach Action Group, 232 Smiths Beach development, 228–32, 234, 237–9, 241 social class, 24, 29, 36, 42–3, 61, 72, 100–1, 103, 105, 117–18, 125, 134, 143, 167, 183 South West Development Board, 221–2 Soviet Union, 182–3, 238 Spagnolo, Joe, 216, 228

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Split, the, see Labor Party Standing Committee on Estimates and Financial Operation (SCEFO), 233–4 State Energy Commission (SECWA), 115, 118–20 State Government Insurance Office (SGIO), 130, 143, 155 Stephens, Tom, 28, 43, 77–8, 84 Stirling City Council, 156–7, 186 Stokes, Gary, 218 Storm, Adrian, 189–90, 192 Storm report, 190, 192 Stowe, Ric, 60 Strike Softly (horse ridden by Danny Hobby in AHA Cup at Bunbury), 99 Sunday Times, 71, 141, 147, 156, 177, 183, 210, 216, 228, 239 Superannuation Board, see Government Employees Superannuation Board surveillance, see electronic surveillance Sydney Morning Herald, 122, 125, 165, 167 Temby, Ian, 89 Textor, Mark, 245 Thatcher, Margaret, 43, 66 Thorn, Michael, 62 Thornton, Mark, 55 timber industry, 88–92 Tonkin, Arthur, 33, 34, 38, 50, 52, 59, 62–3, 86–7, 109 Tonkin, John, 26, 29, 30 Tonkin Labor government, 26, 29 Town and Country WA Building Society, 60, 116, 158 trade unions, see unions Trades and Labor Council, 62 Traynor, Des, 150–2, 177–8, 180, 185 Treadgold, Tim, 24, 127, 132–3 Treasury, 106, 107, 110, 113 Tricontinental, 142 Turnbull, Malcolm, 143 Underwood, Roger, 91–2 unions, union movement, 7, 8, 10, 33, 61–2, 66, 102, 169, 188, 200–1, 203, 213, 225, 235, 244 Urban Pacific, 217–18, 220

Vietnam War, 25, 32, 53 WA Inc, 56, 59, 96, 100, 102–3, 106–7, 111, 114–15, 128, 131, 133, 138, 140–2, 144–5, 147–9, 150, 153–4, 163–4, 172, 174, 177–8, 186, 199, 204, 206, 208, 238, 241, 245–6, 248 WADC, see Western Australian Development Corporation Wall Street Crash, 126 Walsh, Jack, 45–6, 98, 144–5 Walsh, Sam, 233 Watergate, 41, 142 Watson, Judyth, 49–50 Weber, Max, 49 West Australian, 15, 17, 23–4, 30–1, 54–5, 77, 95, 110, 127, 132–3, 137, 146, 151–2, 155, 172, 176–7, 192, 210–11, 214 Western Australian Development Bank, 67 Western Australian Development Corporation (WADC), 67–9, 96, 180 Western Australian inquiry into land rights, 79–81 Western Australian Institute of Sport, 66 Western Australian Trotting Association, 212 Western Continental, 119–20 Western Mail, 110 Western Power, 213 White Australia Policy, 4 Whitely, Dennis, 108 Whitlam, Gough, 10, 25, 35 Whitlam government, 153 Wilkinson, Marian, 125–6 Williams, Harry T., 37, 38, 39, 56–7, 97, 116–17 Wollongong Council, 247 Woodchipping Agreement Act, 88 Woolcott, Dick, 185 Wooroloo Prison Farm, 192–5 Work Choices, 200 workers union, see Australian Workers Union Xstrata, 220 Yu, Peter, 83

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