Underbelly 6 Page 13

  Smith could afford the bribes. He told police he had bought the Aussie Bar for $25,000 and made $40,000 a month.

  How he managed that profit from a shop-front bar defied even the most creative accounting. He was paid only a $12 fee when one of his ‘girls’ was taken by a patron for sex. His main income came from other sources.

  In 1986, the corrupt Marcos government fell and for the first time in more than decade, Smith was vulnerable.

  An enemy of his sent a Melbourne newspaper article exposing Smith’s group to the Philippine Presidential Commission on Good Government. The local authorities began an investigation and asked for Australian police files on the group. It was enough.

  He was deported in August, 1986. Back in Australia, the big man was no longer under protection. He was immediately targeted by the National Crime Authority.

  For more than 10 years he had been untouchable but within weeks of moving his business back on-shore, he was arrested.

  Smith, Ashford and another associate, Thomas Schevella, were arrested in October for dealing drugs out of a Campbellfield trucking yard.

  One of his team, the son of a NSW judge, gave telling evidence and Smith was sentenced to 11 years with a minimum of nine for trafficking cocaine and marijuana valued at $500,000.

  Ashford was sentenced to 10 years with a minimum or eight. Schevella got eight years with a minimum of six.

  When Smith was released, no one seriously believed he was a reformed character and he was soon back in business.

  Despite their extensive records, Smith and Ashford were easily able to set themselves up in the Hollyford Hotel in Elizabeth Street.

  The pub soon became a meeting place for major criminals. Drugs, guns and stolen property were exchanged and bought inside the old-style pub.

  Police would later describe it as a ‘supermarket’ for drugs.

  MOST criminals do their best work at night – darkness is their protection – but Smith was different, doing his deals before lunch.

  When on the move, which was often, he would leave the Rolls Royce at a car yard and use his battered blue Toyota Crown sedan to move his drugs to a network of sellers.

  Smith worked on the theory that he was less likely to be pulled up in the morning by patrols, believing police were too busy chasing last night’s crimes to worry about him.

  By midday, Smith had almost always completed his on-the-road work and had settled into a bar seat. If you wanted Greedy after lunch, you would ring his mobile telephone or head for the Hollyford.

  Many did; police were to monitor 2979 calls on his phone in just two months.

  In May, 1999, the Mill Park District Support Group began an investigation into the activities of a local woman who had become a prodigious amphetamine dealer.

  Mary Gannon, 39, had turned drugs into her private cottage industry, selling speed from her home seven days a week, often using the family car to collect her supplies. Business was brisk. Police were to monitor 4500 calls on her mobile phone in two months – around 75 a day.

  Jacqui Ramchen … the model wife who vanished.

  Jacqui with host Gary Meadows on The price is Right.

  Happy days … millionaire Vic Ramchen with Jacqui and their first born.

  The Ramchens’ real estate … ‘Fairbairn’ in South Yarra.

  An old auction poster for their Woodend property.

  A mother’s love … Jacqui with her oldest son, Lev.

  Russell Morgan Harrod … did he shoot ‘Johnny’ Setek? You be the judge.

  ‘Johnny’ Setek battered panel van

  ‘Johnny’ Setek … his body has never been found.

  Detective Senior Sergeant John Morrish … death was Harrod’s only escape.

  His dogs lived well … but he didn’t. Setek’s shack and caravan in the bush.

  Dennis William ‘Fatty’ Smith … proof that money can’t buy class.

  A real underbelly crook … Smith and $320,000 worth of jewellery.

  The fat cat on the mat … Smith about to be deported from manila.

  From vice pit to cockpit … Kerry Ashford, Roger Daltrey and ‘Fatty’ at the Aussie Bar and (below) at the controls.

  Holding court … a young Frank Galbally with relieved clients.

  Billy ‘The Texan’ Longley, one of Galbally’s more notorious clients.

  ‘Mr Frank’… was he the best criminal advocate in the world?

  Alleged drug smuggler Chika Honda … says she and her friends didn’t do it.

  In a fluctuating industry controlled by supply and demand Mary Gannon had a reputation for reliability. The key to her success was that, unlike many drug dealers, she could provide what she promised.

  While others had to worry about supply she was close to a man who had an apparently inexhaustible stockpile of drugs. His name was Dennis William Smith.

  Once police knew the old Manila connection was back in business, the NCA joined the operation.

  Mary Gannon had known Smith, Ashford and Stephen ‘Fat Albert’ Collins for 20 years and, although she was not a big client, Gannon was never allowed run dry. Her network had grown to the point where she supplied her own group of sub-dealers, including one who ran a cafe in Collingwood. Gannon’s business method was sort of Amway with attitude.

  She was always keen to identify fresh markets and was quick to embrace Lewis Harley, a country dealer looking for a steady supply of speed. It would be months before syndicate members would learn he was an undercover detective.

  Investigators were to buy amphetamines from the Smith network 16 times over the next six months before conducting a series of raids in December, 1999.

  The myth is that drug dealers are cool business sharks, John Travolta types in expensive clothes who weigh the odds as calmly as they weigh their powders.

  The reality is that most dealers nearly always take ridiculous risks as they search for a win and Gannon was no exception.

  On June 4, 1999, Harley went with Gannon to buy speed from a dealer they would meet at the Northland Shopping Centre in Preston. He handed over $2250 for her to buy the amphetamines. Instead of satisfying herself with a quick profit she decided to embark on a shoplifting spree while she was there.

  In a scene more fitting a Benny Hill skit than a NCA operation, she left the Rebel Sports store with the alarm ringing. Surveillance police watched as the drug dealer ran through the car park, throwing items of clothing away as she was chased by security guards.

  She surrendered when she no longer had any shoplifted clothes left. Later she went on to meet her dealer to buy the drugs. To her it was all part of a day’s work.

  On September 3, Gannon and Harley drove to Carlton to buy amphetamines. Police watched as she walked up to Smith, who was about to drive from the Hollyford Hotel in his Rolls Royce. She went to the driver’s window and returned with about 13 grams of speed.

  She confided to Harley the ‘fat guys’ were harassing her over an old drug debt.

  But Smith and Ashford were into more than just powders. They were planning to grow a marijuana crop near Shepparton.

  On October 18, police watched as they bought the necessary gear from a Kensington hydroponics wholesaler. The following day Ashford transported the gear in his gold Mercedes Benz.

  Senior police doubted investigators would be able to gather enough evidence against Smith, Ashford, Collins and Dennis ‘Wee-Wee’ Baldwin, who had been a director of Kerden Enterprises with Smith 15 years earlier.

  But when Gannon was jailed over stealing cars, undercover detectives were able to move up the main players. Undercover policeman Harley convinced Smith to sell directly to him. The street-smart ‘Greedy’ was too greedy to see that he was being set up.

  During one deal, Collins went into the kitchen of the Hollyford and came out with a plastic bag filled with amphetamines. He put it under Harley’s nose and bragged ‘this will be the best stuff you have ever had’.

  As usual, Fat Albert was exaggerating and, although the undercover off
icer paid $3000 for the speed it was only 20 per cent pure.

  Smith may have moved large amounts of drugs, but he was not too proud to make small deals. While he sold amphetamines to the undercover detectives for up to $11,000 at a time he was also prepared to sell anything else that came to hand.

  Harley was sitting in the hotel when Smith produced a long-sleeved Country Road shirt and asked if he wanted to buy it. While Greedy did not pretend to be a fashion expert, he knew a bargain when he saw one.

  The shirt had been shoplifted from Myer’s department store by a woman who always sold her stolen property in the pub. The price tag was $140. The undercover bought it for $30, along with $6000 worth of amphetamines. He also knew a bargain when he saw one.

  Smith was monitored contacting associates and calling for a meeting at the ‘headquarters’. Detectives were able to establish it was a house in Liverpool Street, Footscray. They observed Smith, Baldwin and Collins meeting at the house. And they watched as the crime team did reconnaissance on the Commonwealth Bank in Barkly Street and the Kealba View Hotel – both potential armed robbery targets.

  At 7.43pm on December 21, about two hours before Smith was due to sell Harley $3000 of amphetamines, he started to have second thoughts. He called Gannon in prison and asked if Harley was a policeman. Gannon said she trusted him and told Smith the story of their meeting. Somewhat reassured, Smith went ahead with the deal. But he should have trusted his instincts. On December 23, Harley bought amphetamines worth $11,500 at the hotel. He handed Smith a Richmond Football Club stubby holder containing $11,500. It would be the last buy before the raids 30 minutes later.

  Police raided 10 properties around Melbourne, including the headquarters, the Hollyford hotel and the marijuana crop near Shepparton.

  They found drugs, guns, fake documents, including, driver’s licences, birth certificates, loan applications and passports. In the hotel, they found the store room had been turned into a drug warehouse with plastic bags and two sets of electric scales. Police found traces of amphetamines on one set.

  During he raid on Collins’s home police found 199 fake ecstasy tablets containing amphetamines. Collins sold the tablets for $23 each. At Gannon’s house they also found stolen property. In the raid on the Footscray ‘headquarters’ was ammunition, balaclavas, gloves and two-way radios.

  In the garage was a Lada Niva four-wheel-drive vehicle. Inside it was a large metal ram adapted to attach to the bull-bar for ‘ram raids’. Police also found a loaded, sawn-off double barrel shotgun, a .32 pistol and bolt-cutters.

  The shotgun was tested and found to be the same weapon fired in a Moonee Ponds armed robbery four years earlier.

  In the raid on the country cannabis property, police found 14 guns, including two .22 rifles cut down into makeshift pistols.

  In the front yard of the property they found explosives decomposing in a box. Experts had to detonate them at the scene.

  DENNIS Smith looked at home as he sat in the County Court dock ready to plead guilty. It was more than two years after his arrest, he had already served 272 days in remand and knew he was not looking at another long stint inside.

  Only a slight tic in his left eye betrayed any sign of stress. He was big and bald – perhaps not as big as he once was, but still big enough. And he was dressed in dark conservative clothes, with no sign of his trademark gold jewellery. Court is no place for contrite defendants to show off their ill-gotten wealth.

  Police had in fact seized Smith’s rings and chains but, as they could not prove they were proceeds of crime, they had to give them back.

  His defence lawyer, Matthew Kowolski, made a sensible plea to Judge Stott, concentrating on his client’s ill-health and sad family background without dwelling on the odds of rehabilitation.

  ‘He is a sick man, there is no doubt about that,’ he told the court.

  He acknowledge his client’s career criminal activities with practised understatement. ‘He is not unfamiliar with the courts.’ He did not need to mention the impressive list of 53 convictions gathered over almost 40 years.

  Having been in the dock more than 20 times before, Greedy knew the game. He was even able to point out a prosecution mistake when they claimed he had committed his latest offences while on parole – and was able to produce the documents to prove he was right. After all, he had been committing crime long before many in the court had left primary school.

  Smith stood as Judge Stott passed sentence. They were two veterans of the system, each comfortable with his respective role in the game.

  Greedy’s old mate and partner in crime, Kerry Ashford, was sitting at the back of the court as Smith was sentenced to a further six months inside. When the judge finished, Smith walked briskly from the dock to the door and the waiting prison van. He didn’t need to ask directions.

  CHAPTER 10

  Mr Frank

  At his peak he was the most persuasive advocate in the business – Rumpole of the Blarney.

  IT’S the mid-1960s, a war is raging among the hard men who work on the Melbourne waterfront and one of the hardest of them all, Billy ‘The Texan’ Longley, is in trouble again.

  This is by no means unusual for Longley, who has been getting into strife with the law since he was a kid, pinching pigeons from other people’s lofts to fatten and sell to Chinese restaurants.

  This time, the police say, he has shot three painters and dockers at the Rose and Crown Hotel in Port Melbourne.

  ‘The Texan’, so named because of a TV Western about a man called Longley with a similar penchant for Colt .45 pistols, says he didn’t do it. In fact, five men were shot that night, but two did not bother the law over it. But the evidence of the other three is giving Longley a headache.

  His only hope is that Frank Galbally is defending him. Longley has great faith in ‘Mr Frank’, who was then and for years afterwards the painters and dockers’ lawyer of choice.

  ‘He was like an umbrella from the outrageous slings and arrows of the homicide and consorting squad for me,’ Longley is to say many years later about his all-time favourite advocate. ‘Any hurdles I had to jump I went to see him.’ But, this once, he is puzzled by the great man’s tactics.

  Galbally, cross-examining one of the wounded men, asks if the man who shot him is in court. Longley thinks this question unnecessarily blunt and apt to lead to the sort of answers that will strengthen an already formidable prosecution case.

  ‘The bloke pointed straight at me and said “He’s the man who shot me”,’ Longley is to recall drily. ‘Which struck me as very direct and robust evidence for the Crown.’

  But, the way Longley tells the tale, the imperturbable Galbally keeps going, feeding the aggrieved man gentle questions that don’t seem hard to answer.

  Longley remembers the exchange like this:

  ‘I suppose (suggests Galbally innocently) that the police showed you photographs of suspects while you were in hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Three or four photographs?’

  ‘That’s right, three or four.’

  ‘And a photograph of my client was one of them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re sure there were three or four photographs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  With that, Galbally turns to the bench with a theatrical flourish and asks that the case be dismissed. Longley has to be acquitted because the police did not show the witness ‘a reasonable number’ of photographs, defined by custom as at least a dozen.

  Longley walks. Another chapter of the Galbally story becomes lore.

  A MAN walked into Galbally’s office with a gun one morning and said: ‘I murdered my wife last night.’ Galbally corrected him calmly: ‘You might have killed your wife, my good chap – it’s yet to be seen if you murdered her.’

  IT’S 1978. William Krope, 20, of the respectable Melbourne western suburb of Glenroy, has shot his father Frederick Krope 27 times. It appears, on the bare facts, to be the planned execution of a brutal man
who treated his family badly. Galbally takes the case and agonises for weeks on how to run it.

  Perhaps even he can’t beat this one, so comprehensive is the evidence against young Krope, and so obvious his motives for wanting to kill his father.

  To have any chance of mounting a successful defence, Galbally has to show that Krope senior was a sadist who terrorised his family, but this might not be enough to justify a private execution in the name of self-defence.

  At first, only William is charged with murder and this is a hindrance, as Galbally needs a jury to understand how the whole family lived in fear in order to portray William, accurately, as acting in defence of his mother and sisters.

  Fortunately, from Galbally’s point of view, William’s mother, Josephine Krope, appears twice on a popular commercial television current affairs show and speaks frankly about their sordid and sorry family life, revisiting evidence already given in the Coroner’s Court.

  So frank is she, in fact, that she makes statements which lead to her being charged with conspiring to murder her husband and inciting her son to do so.

  Galbally almost hides his delight: now he has a loving mother and son to show a jury, their combined story far more powerful than either of them alone.

  During the trial, Galbally takes the jury to the Krope house.

  There the jury members see for themselves the garage where Frederick Krope kept stolen goods – and a chest where he stored a gun William feared would be used against him and his mother. This if good for the defence.