Hits and Memories: Chopper 2 by Mark Brandon "Chopper" Read Page B
Authors: Mark Brandon "Chopper" Read
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on with the weight of evidence I now face.
If a man says he was shot and he says that I shot him, then that’s it for me.
I know my not guilty plea is a fart in the face of a thunder storm. Even my friends and loved ones secretly believe I must be guilty because I have been guilty so many times before. Most of my life I have been guilty of something.
It feels so out of place and abnormal for me to tell friends that I really didn’t do it. They agree with me and say ‘Of course you didn’t. Chopper, we believe you.’ Then they give me a funny look or exchange glances which tell me they think I have been up to my old tricks.
However, I march on in the face of it all. Don’t ask me why.
*
SOME of my so-called friends have deserted me. But it was good to know that some people like Mad Micky and Dave the Jew, would always be there for me.
As soon as he heard about this spot of bother Dave flew over to see the Apple Isle. Now, I know The Jew means well, but with me on the inside and him on the outside, anything could happen.
I don’t want this little bit of fuss to get out of hand and I don’t need assorted people going on the missing list. Win, lose or draw, I have to live in Tassie and it is too small for Melbourne-style blood wars. I explained this to Dave over the phone and he agreed, although he argued that one or two wouldn’t hurt.
I just said, ‘Dave, please go home’, and he did. But first he saw Margaret and our dog, Mr Nibbles, onto the ship and safely back to the mainland.
Dave’s loyalty to me over the years has been very touching. Most of my so-called friends here have lost their dash, except for characters like big Josh Burling.
*
TWO weeks before the shooting I was approached by someone in the bikie world in Tasmania with an offer to kill another man. I was told that I would be paid $10,000 for the job, but it was to be on credit.
I roared laughing, I wouldn’t shoot the neighbor’s dog on the nod. But once I refused the offer, the attitude towards me by some people changed dramatically. I don’t know why, but I was treated as a object of suspicion. Perhaps those who wanted me to kill thought I may tell the other side. Then there is a shooting and I am arrested. It is a mystery.
I am supposed to have wanted Collins dead. Well, then, why isn’t he? Sid Collins was driven to hospital at 100 miles an hour, enough to blow the welsh plugs out of the motor of a hotted-up 1974 Ford Fairmont. This proves there was no attempt to kill him.
I am a crack shot. I can shoot a stubbie of beer out of a man’s hand at 20 paces. Sid was shot at point blank range, so why wasn’t he shot in the head? If I had shot him, I could have taken his eye out at ten paces.
The gun involved was conveniently found under a log in my backyard three days later. The .410 sawn-off shotgun I used to kill Sammy the Turk in 1987 is still missing. None of it fits.
*
MY lawyer is Anita Betts, a sharp-minded, good-looking little honey. As lawyers go, I have never had a better one, and I have had some top lawyers in my time.
Anita has the competitive spirit to try to win. She throws the polite legal niceties out the window if she feels her client is not getting a fair go. She won’t try and sell you out or do deals with the Crown behind your back. She is cunning and hard working.
I have never been so impressed with a lawyer. She is a legal streetfighter with a great set of legs. The prosecution seems to hate her, and with good reason. She is on the way up.
*
EVEN though we are now on different sides of the courtroom, I feel that is not a reason to lose one’s manners. After all, I was invited to Sid Collins’s wedding. I even lent him the money for his fiance’s wedding dress. So the other day I wrote to him and said, ‘Dear Sid. I regret to inform you that I fear that I will be unable to attend your forthcoming wedding celebrations due to pending legal matters. Wishing you a speedy recovery. Regards, Mark Brandon
If a man says he was shot and he says that I shot him, then that’s it for me.
I know my not guilty plea is a fart in the face of a thunder storm. Even my friends and loved ones secretly believe I must be guilty because I have been guilty so many times before. Most of my life I have been guilty of something.
It feels so out of place and abnormal for me to tell friends that I really didn’t do it. They agree with me and say ‘Of course you didn’t. Chopper, we believe you.’ Then they give me a funny look or exchange glances which tell me they think I have been up to my old tricks.
However, I march on in the face of it all. Don’t ask me why.
*
SOME of my so-called friends have deserted me. But it was good to know that some people like Mad Micky and Dave the Jew, would always be there for me.
As soon as he heard about this spot of bother Dave flew over to see the Apple Isle. Now, I know The Jew means well, but with me on the inside and him on the outside, anything could happen.
I don’t want this little bit of fuss to get out of hand and I don’t need assorted people going on the missing list. Win, lose or draw, I have to live in Tassie and it is too small for Melbourne-style blood wars. I explained this to Dave over the phone and he agreed, although he argued that one or two wouldn’t hurt.
I just said, ‘Dave, please go home’, and he did. But first he saw Margaret and our dog, Mr Nibbles, onto the ship and safely back to the mainland.
Dave’s loyalty to me over the years has been very touching. Most of my so-called friends here have lost their dash, except for characters like big Josh Burling.
*
TWO weeks before the shooting I was approached by someone in the bikie world in Tasmania with an offer to kill another man. I was told that I would be paid $10,000 for the job, but it was to be on credit.
I roared laughing, I wouldn’t shoot the neighbor’s dog on the nod. But once I refused the offer, the attitude towards me by some people changed dramatically. I don’t know why, but I was treated as a object of suspicion. Perhaps those who wanted me to kill thought I may tell the other side. Then there is a shooting and I am arrested. It is a mystery.
I am supposed to have wanted Collins dead. Well, then, why isn’t he? Sid Collins was driven to hospital at 100 miles an hour, enough to blow the welsh plugs out of the motor of a hotted-up 1974 Ford Fairmont. This proves there was no attempt to kill him.
I am a crack shot. I can shoot a stubbie of beer out of a man’s hand at 20 paces. Sid was shot at point blank range, so why wasn’t he shot in the head? If I had shot him, I could have taken his eye out at ten paces.
The gun involved was conveniently found under a log in my backyard three days later. The .410 sawn-off shotgun I used to kill Sammy the Turk in 1987 is still missing. None of it fits.
*
MY lawyer is Anita Betts, a sharp-minded, good-looking little honey. As lawyers go, I have never had a better one, and I have had some top lawyers in my time.
Anita has the competitive spirit to try to win. She throws the polite legal niceties out the window if she feels her client is not getting a fair go. She won’t try and sell you out or do deals with the Crown behind your back. She is cunning and hard working.
I have never been so impressed with a lawyer. She is a legal streetfighter with a great set of legs. The prosecution seems to hate her, and with good reason. She is on the way up.
*
EVEN though we are now on different sides of the courtroom, I feel that is not a reason to lose one’s manners. After all, I was invited to Sid Collins’s wedding. I even lent him the money for his fiance’s wedding dress. So the other day I wrote to him and said, ‘Dear Sid. I regret to inform you that I fear that I will be unable to attend your forthcoming wedding celebrations due to pending legal matters. Wishing you a speedy recovery. Regards, Mark Brandon
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