Enforcer (31 page)

We eventually pulled up and I could hear someone saying, ‘You’re going to have to hand your guns in, boys. We can’t let you through the gate with those.’ We were at Parklea. There was a long wait as all these coppers handed in their guns. Finally a gate opened and the truck drove through, turned around and backed up, beeping, into a dock.

The van door opened and I stood up, all in black with the sunglasses and the bandana. Lined up in front of me, to the left and right, was a big line of Tactical Response Group coppers in black pyjamas, helmets and bullet-proof vests. Black batons raised. It was like they were waiting for the Incredible Hulk.

Life had just taken a whopping great turn.

But that’s a whole other story, which I may or may not tell . . . one day.

W
alking into the main compound of Parklea jail gave me one of the best sights I’d seen in eighteen months. Bandidos everywhere, coming to greet me. I was back with my brothers, blood and Bandido, reunited while we awaited trial.

Before we even got to court, eight of our blokes were no-billed, which meant the murder charges against them were dropped and they walked out of jail, facing only the minor charge of affray. We couldn’t work out why the eight were picked. It was like they’d just chosen the names from a hat. One of them was my brother Snake and he’d done pretty much what I did – walked down and told the Comos to fight like men, then got shot. My name was never going to be picked out though. My barrister told me the coppers were gunning for me and Jock.

The trial was an extravaganza. All the Bandidos in one perspex-screened box, all the Comos in another, thirty-two different barristers and solicitors. There were sixty-four coppers on security. They reckoned it cost the state ten million big ones.

The whole thing lasted over a year: April 1986 to June 1987. But I knew after six weeks that we were going to be found guilty. So I just sat up in the last seat in the back row and leant into the corner, arms folded, feet up on the seat in front of me, sunglasses on. The Rodent (Justice Adrian Roden) hated it; he couldn’t tell whether I was sleeping or watching. Sometimes he’d get the court officers to check on me. I was awake the whole time.

One day in court, homicide detective Aarne Tees came up to me and said, ‘If the Comos had’ve done what you lot did and refused to sign a statement, we would never have been able to arrest any of you.’ In trying to get us locked up, the Comancheros got themselves locked up too.

People tried to say Jock was a target that day at Milperra. Well, it came out in court that the Comos were sitting at the Viking Tavern with their shotguns and walkietalkies for an hour before we turned up. So to say that Jock was a target was just rubbish. We didn’t even know there were going to be Comos there. If I’d have known, we wouldn’t have gone.

Six Campbells went to the Viking Tavern that day, and five got shot. There’s your target. (And to this day I think Bull carries a big load on his shoulders that he was the only one that didn’t even cop a nick.)

All of us on trial were charged with one count of affray and seven counts of murder, for the deaths of Chop and Shadow, Comancheros Foghorn, Sparra, Leroy and Dog, plus Leanne Walters. Eight Comos, including Jock, were convicted of those charges, along with just one Bandido, Lard. (The murder convictions were later downgraded to manslaughter on appeal.) The rest of us were found guilty of affray and seven counts of manslaughter – all except Knuckles, who was still recovering from his bike accident and was acquitted of the murder and manslaughter charges and found guilty only of affray. He walked free from court the day of the verdict, although like the true Bandido he was, he didn’t want to leave his brothers. The rest of us went back to jail, me sentenced to seven years’ non-parole.

F
OUR MONTHS
after the verdicts, one of the screws came up to me in jail and said, ‘I’d like to see you out the front of the visiting area.’

I walked out the front and as soon as I saw my mum there I had a bad feeling. Then they told me my young brother, Wack, had died. I lost it. I wrecked half the vending machines in the visiting complex. The screw in charge of security could have had his squad jump on me, but he let me go. Never charged me with anything.

After my dad died I’d sort of stepped into his shoes, and because Wack was one of the youngest I felt real bad that I hadn’t protected him better. That was the third time in my life I shed a tear.

I’d already lost two brothers fighting for the club in the car park of the Viking Tavern, and now it was three. Wack didn’t die directly from his injuries, but if he hadn’t been shot, his body would have had more strength to fight, and if he hadn’t been in jail he would have received the right treatment earlier. So I consider that Wack laid down his life for the club, too. And there is no greater honour than dying for your club in a war. In fact, when any new member joins the Bandidos I believe they should be told the story of how Chop, Shadow and Wack died. That way they will truly know what honour, courage and brotherhood mean to the club.

T
he whole four years I was locked up, Donna didn’t leave the house other than to do the shopping or visit me. When I got paroled on 6 March 1990, the first thing I did was get Donna pregnant and the second thing I did was give her the proper white wedding I knew she’d always wanted.

I saw her coming out in the dress, and I’m not ashamed to say I went all weak at the knees. We’ve been together thirty-one years now, and we’re aiming for thirty-one more. As each year goes by I only love her more. Donna was with me when I was a Gladiator, she came through the Comancheros with me, and she was the original Bandido old lady. She’s been through all the hardships, the club wars, me being shot and going to jail, and through all of that our relationship has only got stronger.

Our youngest daughter Chyanne was born in November 1990, and if I were a straight, maybe that’s where the story would end. Peacefully. But I’m not a straight. I’ve copped more bullets since leaving jail than I did at Milperra. Donna’s pulled out everything from SG 00s, the biggest shotgun pellets, down to .22s and .223s. There was a .38 once and a .45. I’ve still got some in my body. One worked its own way out into my ear canal while Donna was writing this book. Anytime I have to go for an X-ray the technician usually says to me, ‘Oh, do you know you’ve been shot?’

One time they tested me for lead poisoning because of all the slugs inside me.

That’s why I agreed to move out of the city. The idea was that if I was in the country people would forget about me. But then I was standing in our rural front yard watering the garden and a car pulled up.
Bang, bang
. Shot twice in the stomach. Then there were a couple more episodes of bullets coming through the house and I thought, Oh fuck it, might as well be in Sydney with my brothers.

My old man always said that no matter how good you are there’s always someone better out there; it was just a question of how long it took you to run into them. When I was in my forties it started to worry me that I’d meet that bloke, but I was more worried that I’d hurt somebody and end up back inside. In my fifties I started to mellow. I’m in my sixties now, missing a quarter of a lung, and I still haven’t run into him. I’ve never even been knocked off my feet. Not even in the car park at Milperra. Age will get me though. I’m still getting into blues with blokes in their twenties wanting to take on the big bad bikie. I’m sick and tired of it.

And the cops have never let me forget Milperra. In December 2009, while Donna was writing this book, I had eight of them wearing all the bullet-proof gear try to bash down the door. I went and opened it before they did too much damage and they stuck their guns in my face. Spent three hours searching the place for handguns, saying I was planning my revenge on the Comos. But I swore to Mum and Donna when I got out of jail that I wouldn’t touch the Comos unless they came after me. And if you’ve gathered nothing else from this book, you’d at least know that I’m a man of my word.

I’m proud to say that my two sons, Caspar (Lee) and Doc (Daniel), are continuing the Campbell tradition of being able to look after themselves. Caspar was the first son of a Bandido to also become a Bandido.

Together with Chane and my brothers’ kids, they will proudly carry on the family name.

I would like to thank Mark and Amy for all their help and patience with writing the book, and Tom Gilliatt for taking me on board. I really appreciate your help.

And thanks to Caesar’s brothers Big Bear, Witch and Crash.