Murderer No More: Andrew Mallard and the Epic Fight that Proved His Innocence

By Colleen Egan

In 1994 Pamela Lawrence was brutally bashed to death in her jewelry shop in Perth. Fairly quickly, police suspicion fell on a young, psychologically fragile drifter named Andrew Mallard; he was ultimately charged and convicted of this murder. It took 13 years for this injustice to unravel. Here is it's tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen Unwin
• Release date: Jul 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781742690469

Book preview

MURDERER

NO

MORE

MURDERER

NO

MORE

ANDREW MALLARD

AND THE EPIC FIGHT

THAT PROVED HIS INNOCENCE

COLLEEN EGAN

First published in Australia in 2010

Copyright © Colleen Egan 2010

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.

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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my mother, who taught me right from wrong,

and my precious children, Sam and Josie J

And for Rob Devenish, an angel whose work

will be remembered forever

Contents

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE

1 A sudden storm and a terrible murder

2 The perfect patsy

3 The prime suspect

4 A dodgy confession

5 A wild, wild week

6 Charged and convicted

7 Six learned judges

8 Andrew’s nightmare

9 Never give up

10 Injections of faith

11 An unlikely saviour

12 Justice, West Australian style

13 See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil

14 Our darkest day

15 The highest court in the land

16 A strange kind of victory

17 On the outside

18 Another blonde woman murdered

19 A bombshell drops

20 More blood

21 The DPP is delighted . . .

22 The Corruption and Crime Commission

23 Facing Peter Lawrence

24 The final chapter

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THIS BOOK IS BASED on actual events. Much of the dramatic dialogue comes directly from court transcripts, police statements and other legal documents. Other dialogue and scene descriptions have been reconstructed from the memories of at least one person involved in the conversation or event. Thanks to many of the participants for their involvement and feedback to assist with accuracy. Some names have been changed for legal reasons.

Thanks particularly to Andrew, who showed great humility and honest self-analysis to candidly explore his difficult past. The self-esteem and mental health issues from which Andrew suffered in his youth played a large part in his being vulnerable to injustice. It’s a true credit to Andrew’s maturity and strength that he has assisted the portrayal of some times in his life he’d rather forget.

Almost all of the dialogue in the passages dealing with the police interrogations in 1994 has come from the detectives’ notes, which they have sworn to be accurate. Andrew has consistently stated since 1994 that the records of interviews, for the most part, were fabricated and that the dialogue and sequence of events were not as the investigating officers described. Unfortunately, aside from a short video, they are the only record of events. I apologise to Andrew for using documents with which he disagrees.

Thanks also to Peter Lawrence for his assistance under the most difficult of circumstances.

Appeal judgments and High Court transcripts are available on the www.austlii.edu.au website. Corruption and Crime Commission transcripts are archived at http://www.ccc.wa.gov.au/transcripts. transcripts are archived at http://www.ccc.wa.gov.au/transcripts.php?action=archive.

My thanks to the friends, family and colleagues who read drafts of the manuscript; to those who spent many hours listening to and talking with me about the case; to my agent Georg Karlov; to Jamie for his brilliance and generous support, particularly in the early stages; to my wonderful mum; to my supportive employers; to Estelle Blackburn, Martin Saxon and Wendy Page; and to the ‘Mallard team’, who have become great friends. Thanks to Helen Garner for her inspiration, via the book Joe Cinque’s Consolation. Thanks to The West Australian and its photographers, and to Karin Calvert for the back cover shot.

It was originally proposed that this book would be co-authored with Malcolm McCusker AO QC and Dr James Edelman, however the Western Australian Bar Association prohibits freedom of communication by barristers with the public about cases with which they are involved. A percentage of the royalties from this book will go towards supporting the investigation of innocence claims in Western Australia in recognition of their extensive assistance, particularly in the drafts of early chapters.

Prologue

OVER THE YEAR FOLLOWING Andrew Mallard’s release from Casuarina jail in 2006, he and I met regularly at cafes around Perth, sipping coffee and debriefing each other. Our caution about communicating sensitive information through prison channels had meant that Andrew was kept in the dark about many of the events of the past eight years since I’d become involved in his case. We’d met each other only a few times while he was behind bars.

He was often speechless as I told him the details behind the many stages that eventually led to his freedom. He was touched by the quiet but essential support of people who had helped his cause thanklessly over the years, just as he was disappointed by the way others had found it too hot to handle and begged off when they could have helped.

I apologised for us taking an eternity to get him out. He told me it was meant to be: his release came at the time when he was ready for it. In his head, his heart and his soul, he had matured and grown over the years. It was all preparation to make the most of his second chance at life.

During long interviews for this book, Andrew relived his almost 12 years in prison, finally able to let down some of the protective barriers he had erected to stay strong enough to cope each day. He often needed to take breaks to wipe away tears as he spoke of the anguish and pain, of loneliness and confusion, grief and despair. He shared for the first time the thought processes behind his ‘lost years’ and the paranoid fantasy world he created to cushion his conscious mind from the unthinkable reality of being locked in a maximum security jail.

It was enthralling for me to fill in the many blanks in my understanding of Andrew’s life inside. Our contact had been so limited, and we had focused so heavily on the fight for the future—getting him outside the razor-wire fence—that this was the first opportunity to find out how he coped with such a drawn-out, traumatic ordeal.

To my surprise, every question I had about Andrew’s seemingly bizarre behaviour in the first couple of years I was working on his case, when he had refused to acknowledge me or allow me to visit the prison, had a logical answer. He wasn’t just crazy in those days; his mind had gone into a complex survival mode that, it seemed to me, saved his sanity and perhaps his life.

At times, his memories evoked science-fiction movies or prison dramas. At others, it reminded me of the fascinating memoirs of political prisoners like Nelson Mandela and hostages like Terry Waite, who spent long years in wrongful detention. It’s amazing how humans can adapt to their environments and triumph over extreme unfairness.

Finally able to see the experience with some detachment, Andrew sometimes shook his head and even laughed when describing the nights he would wait for the guards to leave before swapping the direction he lay in bed to avoid being ‘brainwashed’ by imaginary speakers near his pillow; or the hours spent shaving the Ministry of Justice logos from his towels; or the false belief he held for several years that Casuarina Prison was actually a brainwashing facility in some parallel sci-fi universe.

He went pale as he recounted the frightening experience of being rendered zombie-like by psychiatric drugs that were forcibly injected into him; and he wept as he explained his stubborn refusal to accept for several years that his beloved father had died of cancer. The idea of losing his hero as well as his liberty was just too much to bear.

As Andrew proofread drafts of this book, he began to realise that his story was less about a tragic victim than an inspirational survivor.

‘I did pretty well, really, didn’t I?’ he asked me one day, about six months after his release. We were sitting at a South Perth coffee shop, watching normal people going about their normal lives. ‘I survived.’

It was dawning on both of us that Andrew had come a long way from being the insecure, psychologically vulnerable young man who became trapped in a police interview room a dozen years earlier. It was sinking in that he had triumphed over something that only a person with great inner strength could endure.

‘Yeah, you did good,’ I replied. ‘You did real good.’

ONE

A sudden storm and

a terrible murder

A GREAT HOWLING WIND whistled in from the west, dumping torrents of rain on the world’s most isolated capital city. Gathering pace through the waters of the Indian Ocean, the seasonally uncharacteristic low off the West Australian coast created a storm that took even the weather bureau by surprise. Many residents had dressed for the typical blue skies and mild autumn temperatures. It was the kind of weather that blessed Perth, with its pristine beaches and yacht-dotted river, with one of the best family lifestyles on offer.

But this day, 23 May 1994, a freak storm unsettled the city. Drivers slowed, cars stalled and headlights started glowing well before sundown. In the western Perth suburb of Mosman Park, office workers scampered down Glyde Street from the train station and bus stops on Stirling Highway, one of the major routes between the CBD and the port city of Fremantle. Scurrying to find shelter, the five o’clock foot traffic kept collars up and heads down as they battled the lashing rain. Most didn’t bother wrestling with umbrellas, the wind was so strong, as they quickly passed the strip of specialty stores in Glyde Street’s small shopping area.

On usual May days, passers-by would often peek through the bay windows of Flora Metallica, a quirky jewellery and gift shop that was gaining a reputation for its unique wares. Painted colonial green and based in one of the olde-worlde style buildings designed to give Glyde Street a quaint and classy feel, Flora Metallica had recently received state-wide publicity for the original ideas of its talented owner, Pamela Lawrence. The windows displayed everyday objects dipped in shiny metals. Tourists loved the Australiana gum nuts and native flowers made into silver-plated earrings and pendants, and locals sought out Pam to skilfully dip their cherished baby booties in copper.

For four years Pam had built up the business, satisfying her creative talents while carving out a new career with the support of her husband of 23 years, Peter. Trained as a highly skilled theatre sister, she had spent years nursing patients and nurturing two girls at home. Loving and affectionate, she told her children every day how much she adored them and how they could achieve anything in their lives if they worked hard. Pam’s recent success as a businesswoman surprised few who knew the Lawrences. She was the axis of a lovely family: attractive and outgoing, a lively tennis opponent and engaging dinner guest. The family had done well, owning a modest home in a wealthy area with Peter working as a manager at a plant-hire business. Their daughters, Katie, 20, and Amy, 17, were both now at university after finishing at the state’s best girls’ schools. They still lived at home, working part-time alongside their mum in the business.

Inside the shop this stormy day, Pam prepared to close up and head home. It was clear that no more customers would walk through the wooden front door and she had finished creating jewellery pieces for the day. One outstanding order, a pair of salt and pepper shakers promised to Mr Whitford, was completed and ready to go.

One of her two part-time assistants, Jacqueline Barsden, had covered the 10.30–3 pm shift, giving Pam a chance to work in the back shed. Cluttered with tools and materials, the small workshop housed Pam’s most important stock in trade: a large bath filled with copper and gold solution for the dipping process. Because her employees were only part-time, Pam was alone for a few hours each day. There had been a string of break-ins among the close-knit group of proprietors on Glyde Street. The video store, the hi-fi shop and the deli were all targeted several times in the months leading up to 23 May 1994. Not long before, a brick had been thrown through a front window of Flora Metallica and police were called, prompting Pam to advise employees that they should never argue with a potential thief. Jewellery and money were just material objects; they were not worth the price of being assaulted—or worse. Best known for her bubbling laughter and lust for life, Pam Lawrence was the last person who’d put herself in danger for a few dollars.

• • • • •

IT WAS 6.39 PM when the triple-0 call was logged. Uniformed constable Shaun Staples and his partner, Sue Debnam, answered the car radio and sped towards 4 Glyde Street. Three minutes later, their van pulled up outside Flora Metallica. A middle-aged man, bearded and wearing a collared shirt with tracksuit pants stained with blood, was out the front, waving his arms. ‘She’s in there,’ he told them, hurrying back inside. ‘I found her.’

The constables ran towards the back of the shop, behind the service counter into a kitchen area near the back door. The scene inside was fraught. A middle-aged woman wearing jeans and a dark jumper lay gurgling in pools of blood with gushing wounds in her head. Peter Lawrence knelt beside his wife, holding an old piece of material against her scalp. Her wavy blonde hair was thick with dark red blood.

‘Where is that ambulance?’ asked Peter.

‘It will be here soon,’ answered Staples, kneeling alongside him in the wet, red rivulet covering the wooden floor. He was holding Pam’s limp head as his partner helped with the makeshift bandage over her gaping wounds. She was unconscious. The only noise she made was a bubbling moan that would stay in the memories of those who were there that night.

Peter was talking to his wife in a quiet, measured voice while Debnam tried to stem the bleeding. ‘Come on, Pammy,’ he murmured. ‘Hang in there. You’re strong. Come on, Pam.’ At 6.45, Staples heard the ambulance and went out front to wave it down. He signalled to the driver and ran back into the shop. Inside, Debnam told Pam: ‘Hang in there, the ambulance is here.’ By that time, she could not locate a pulse. The wounds were bleeding profusely.

Ambulance officers John Rigby and John Pampano quickly surveyed the scene and worked furiously to save Pam, who was weak and hardly breathing. Her skin was dry and cold. She had lost three, perhaps four, litres of blood. Her body only held about four and a half litres. Pampano ran back outside for a stretcher as Rigby had Peter and Constable Debnam help lift Pam out of a large red puddle into a less cluttered area of the small shop. Rigby quickly applied another tight bandage and the four emergency workers, with Peter assisting, hurried her onto the stretcher and out to the vehicle.

‘Where is she going?’ Peter asked as he stood alongside the ambulance. ‘Can I go with her?’

‘We’ll take her to Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital,’ answered Rigby. ‘I’m sorry, you can’t come.’

Rigby was, however, keen to take Constable Debnam with him. Police officers had advanced first-aid training and she would be of use. Debnam jumped in the back. Its sirens blaring, the ambulance pulled away from the kerb to push through the wet weather queues of sluggish cars. Seconds later, Rigby realised that his blood-soaked patient had stopped breathing. All the way to hospital, he tried to breathe life into Pam while Debnam pumped her chest in time with a CPR count. It was too late. Their patient had been drained of too much blood. By the time the ambulance doors opened on arrival at the hospital, Rigby could only tell medical staff it was too late. They could not revive her.

When one of Pam’s distraught daughters rang the hospital at 7.20, the staff member who answered broke protocol by telling the truth over the phone. The hysterical young woman was told that her mother was dead.

• • • • •

INSIDE FLORA METALLICA, Staples surveyed the grisly scene. As a general constable on the beat in the western suburbs of Perth, a bloody murder was not something he’d expected on that rainy Monday night. He rang 79 Division, the rapid-response team that handles major crime scenes.

Mosman Park seemed an unlikely place for such violence. Neither impoverished nor working class, it was the suburb of choice for professional, well-heeled folk, nestled between the Swan River and the famous white beaches, home to some of the city’s best riverside restaurants and the exclusive St Hilda’s Anglican School for Girls, where Pam Lawrence had been an active students’ mum. Mining magnate Lang Hancock, once one of Australia’s richest men, had set up home in Mosman Park by building his flamboyant second wife, Rose Porteous, the Gone with the Wind-style Prix D’Amour that would later be reduced to rubble after his death. More discreet mansions were situated along the riverfront recesses of the Mosman Park foreshore, a short trip from the Lawrences’ shop.

And yet, as Staples stood inside surveying the grim leftovers of a terrible crime, he would have known that Mosman Park had a seamier, more desperate side, located in a cluster of budget accommodation flats. A short walk down Glyde Street from the shop’s front door, the shabby sandstone apartments housed less fortunate and less desirable neighbours. Most of them were tenants of Homeswest, the state’s public housing commission. Several of them, at least, were unemployed, into drugs and prone to receiving visits from police. They weren’t your typical Mosman Park resident, and if suspicion was going to fall on anyone it was likely to be them.

While he waited for 79 Division, Staples turned his attention to the agitated man pacing up and down in front of him. Peter Lawrence was hankering to follow his wife to the hospital but Staples couldn’t be sure this wasn’t a domestic crime.

‘I’d like you to stay until the CIB get here,’ said Staples firmly, taking out his notebook. ‘What’s happened here?’

‘She was working late and I found her lying on her back near the sink,’ Peter said. ‘I turned her onto her side.’

‘What time did you find her?’

‘At six-thirty,’ he said. ‘I called her at the store at twenty past and when the answering machine didn’t come on and nobody answered, I came down.’

The men gazed into the bloody puddles, their eyes following a gruesome trail from behind the counter to the back door.

‘Could she have knocked her head on anything?’ Staples asked, struggling to piece together what could possibly have occurred.

‘I don’t think so, there are no sharp edges,’ answered Lawrence, pointing to the bloody trail. ‘There is this blood here. She must have crawled around to the back. Can I go now? I’ve got to get to the hospital.’

‘In a minute, Peter. The CIB will be here soon and they will need to talk to you.’

He walked around the store, behind a set of glass cabinets, and picked up a container of cash.

‘Does anything appear to be stolen?’

‘The money’s still here. It’s only $150, but it’s still here.’

‘How about the jewellery?’

Lawrence looked around at the original designs. They were unique and popular, but they were hardly Argyle diamonds. ‘They’re only worth about $100 each but they look alright.’ He told Staples about his two daughters. He picked up the phone to call home as a passer-by appeared, curious about the commotion. Staples headed to the front door and advised the man to keep away.

Staples offered to make Lawrence coffee but all he wanted was to see his wife at the hospital. He walked around and went to a shelf, where he picked up his wife’s blue handbag.

‘Is anything missing from the bag?’ asked Staples.

‘Her purse. She had an Oroton purse. She keeps a couple of hundred in it.’

‘Could she have put it somewhere else, or have it in her pocket?’

‘No. She always has it in here.’

Aware that the bag might be important evidence, Staples placed it back on the shelf. ‘We had better leave everything as it is,’ he said.

The overwhelmed husband sat down on a chair and covered his face with his hands. His composure collapsed and he began to cry. ‘Bastards,’ was the only word he said.

Staples waited a short time to speak. ‘Has anything like this happened before?’ he asked.

‘We’ve had some bricks through the window, but nothing like this.’

At 7.20 pm, Staples saw the 79 Division car arrive and greeted Sergeant Ian Trinder at the door. He told Trinder about the unconscious woman, the pools of blood, the husband and the purse.

• • • • •

SERGEANT TRINDER had been on the job for about ten years when he turned up at Flora Metallica that evening. Messy crime scenes were familiar to him and he quickly took control. He would later leave the police force, permanently injured after two frightening high-speed chase accidents from which he was lucky to escape with his life. But that night, Trinder’s first duty was the one dreaded by every officer—confronting a distraught relative with the worst possible news.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Your wife died at the hospital,’ he said.

Lawrence held his head in his hands, and blurted: ‘They didn’t have to . . .’

His voice trailed off and Trinder wondered who he was referring to but felt that it wasn’t his place to ask. The plain-clothes boys were here and would make sure this fellow was questioned thoroughly, he thought. Again, Lawrence asked to go home. He had two anxious daughters who needed him now more than ever; could he please go?

‘I’ll ask the detectives,’ Trinder said. ‘But I think they will want you to stay here, sir. You haven’t given a full statement yet.’

Sergeant Trinder was a lowly uniformed officer and had never run a murder investigation, but he reckoned he knew the drum: if a woman is attacked, you look at the in-laws before you go chasing the outlaws. He had no reason to believe this bloke had done anything wrong but he was certain the detectives would at least want to get his full story— and his bloodied clothes—before he went home.

Trinder left for a moment to pop his head out the front. ‘The husband wants to go home,’ he said to the growing group of detectives, some from the local Claremont branch and others gathering from the Major Crime Division. Higher up the food chain than their uniformed colleague, they didn’t bother with niceties.

‘He’s right,’ said one. ‘Let him go home, we’ll go and see him later.’

Trinder was uneasy with the order. Surely procedures should be followed? ‘Are you sure, sir?’

‘Yes, Sergeant. He’s right.’

At 7.30 pm Peter went home. His clothes, stained with blood, were later dumped on the bathroom floor and thrown in the council rubbish bin.

• • • • •

IN THE BOWELS OF the State Mortuary in QEII Medical Centre, Western Australia’s chief forensic pathologist pulled on a pair of thin rubber gloves. Clive Cooke looked at the naked body on the mortuary table. A pale and lifeless form lying under harsh work lights on cold stainless steel, Pamela Lawrence had a mere four hours ago been a vibrant businesswoman, valued friend, mother of two daughters, wife of 23 years. Now her body was grim evidence of a terrible crime.

As he had many times in his ten-year career, Dr Cooke began the careful and methodical search for clues with an external examination. He knew that any information he gave now would help shape the early stages of a serious criminal inquiry. With detectives looking on, speaking into a drop-down microphone linked to a tape deck, Cooke sliced and poked as he went.

The body is that of an adult female, of middle age. There is evidence of medical intervention, including insertion of an artificial airway tube. Dried blood smears most of the skin of the face, and moist blood matts the hair of the back of the head. There are a number of lacerations to the skin and scalp. The marginal skin of each of these is shaved, for further viewing. Fractured skull bone and brain tissue is seen in the depths of some of the injuries. Examination with the dissecting microscope shows turquoise blue/green coloured material, mainly on the bone edges, in the depths of some of the wounds. In one of the injuries, in the left parieto-occipital region, is a small (3×1mm) flake of white coloured material.

It was clear they were dealing with a murder—and a vicious one at that. Dr Cooke left the mortuary at 11.15 pm and headed home. With a few hours’ sleep under his belt, he would be back first thing the next morning to finish his work.

• • • • •

IT WAS GETTING close to 9 pm by the time Detective Sergeant Mal Shervill and his partner reached Mosman Park. The mild-mannered detective had already finished his day shift but that no longer mattered. Driving down from a northern suburb, Shervill wondered if he’d make it to the job at all. The roads were mayhem: trees were uprooted, power poles were down, traffic lights were out. The sudden storm had created carnage all over the metropolitan area, plunging many suburbs into darkness. When Shervill arrived, he knew there would be little forensic examination of the scene that night. He did not even step inside—that might disturb the evidence—and decided that the shop should be locked and guarded till daylight.

However, that didn’t mean there was no work to be done. A generator and floodlights were organised to start the search outside for a weapon and other clues. The acting officer in charge of the Major Crime Squad team, Detective Sergeant John Brandham, was already running the early inquiries. He appointed Shervill as the investigation’s case officer, responsible for management of the inquiry and keeping all the paperwork in order. The boss of Claremont CIB brought three of his detectives along, too.

Shervill and another detective drove around the corner to 3 Kalgoorlie Street, the Lawrence family home. While they were gone, the hunt for the weapon turned up nothing. At 10.30 pm, two constables arrived to guard the scene and then Detective Sergeant Brandham headed back to Claremont CIB, the investigation team’s temporary base. He organised a specialist to operate the force’s new computer program, designed to manage inquiries involving a high volume of information from the public. He also ordered a dozen staff to help at the scene the following morning.

Shervill arrived at the Claremont office at 11.20 pm, having spoken to Peter and sent his brother-in-law to identify the body. Spending time with grieving relatives was never easy, especially when children were involved. The Lawrence home had been emotional and distressing: Katie and her younger sister, Amy, were inconsolable, even as the in-laws and neighbours hovered around, trying to be helpful. Valium had been purchased for husband and daughters, who spent hours sitting on the couch, holding on to each other and trying to comprehend the unthinkable event that had blown apart their lives.

• • • • •

IN THE EARLY HOURS of Tuesday 24 May, Detective Sergeant Shervill’s pager started beeping. It was Peter Lawrence. Shervill had told him to call any time and didn’t let the lack of sleep affect his sympathetic manner. Shervill’s mild and quiet demeanour was appreciated by victims and the two men would form a close bond over the coming weeks and years.

As he prepared for the first full day of inquiries, the novice case officer could not have hoped for a better lead early in the morning. The daughter of a part-time worker at Flora Metallica had reported that she’d seen someone suspicious in the store. It could be the investigation’s lucky break. Claremont CIB was already buzzing with detectives. Sixteen plain-clothes investigators were at work by 5.30 am. Among them was Detective Sergeant David Caporn, a dedicated and ambitious officer making a name for himself with the hierarchy. Caporn was among the new breed of policeman who espoused that higher education and sophisticated interview techniques were the hallmarks of modern crime fighting. He took every opportunity to improve his qualifications and impress the brass. He was willing to go the extra mile for a collar. His colleagues saw him as a future commissioner in the making.

In nearby Swanbourne, two detectives arrived at the home of Mrs Barsden, the Lawrences’ part-time worker. They sat down with her 13-year-old daughter, Kate. The girl told them that after her grandmother collected her from St Hilda’s school the day before, sitting in the passenger seat at the traffic lights on Glyde Street, Kate looked through the bay window and noticed a man behind the counter. She commented to her gran: ‘Why is that man standing in the shop where he shouldn’t be?’ The man then stared directly at her. She described him as Caucasian with a long face and an auburn-coloured beard, which was trimmed. He was wearing a bandanna on his head that was patterned. When she got home she told her mum, who picked up the telephone to see if Pam was okay but then, without dialling the number, decided not to bother making the call.

Kate was certain of the time of the sighting because she’d looked at the car clock: it was 5.02 pm. The girl was young but she was to become a crucial witness in the case and her evidence was to have an impact on juries and judges alike. Kate met with a sketch artist to develop an identikit picture of the man she had seen.

By lunchtime, the leads were mounting up. A mental patient living in a flat above a nearby restaurant had a beard; the nearby Graylands asylum was contacted. A group of heroin addicts who hung around with a Fremantle tattooist were known to operate in the area; their names were added to a growing list. A woman saw a clean-shaven man acting suspiciously at the corner of View and Forrest streets; a friend of Pam’s wanted to talk about suspects in a previous burglary; a train surveillance video showed a bandanna-wearing man with two Aboriginal males; the Drug Squad advised the team that a known junkie living down the road was obtaining heroin from a man convicted of murdering a woman.

The post-mortem results were communicated to the squad room at 1 pm: ‘Cause of death head injuries. There are 12

Reviews for Murderer No More

[austcrimefiction · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I have no idea how some authors can get themselves involved in a miscarriage of justice, see the case through to its conclusion, write an incisive and revealing book about the state of justice (particularly when it's in the state in which they continue to live), and not develop the odd twitch. Not, I'd hasten to add, have I had more than a few moments chat with Colleen Egan, but having now read this book I admire both her persistence and her stamina profoundly, and can remember no such twitch.Despite Egan's involvement in the long drawn out attempts to take the conviction of Andrew Mallard for the 1994 murder of Pamela Lawrence to appeal or somehow to be reconsidered by the WA Justice System; despite the glaring inconsistencies in both the evidence and the conduct of the trial that she found; regardless of how suspect the conduct of the investigation seems to have been, she has written a book in which her involvement isn't overly emphasised and the conclusions drawn throughout seem to be extremely reasonable and consistent with the evidence encountered. To be fair, there is a difference between an author writing as an investigative journalist, working actively to reverse a miscarriage of justice, and one who is simply reporting on a case, but for some reason I've read a few books recently where reporting authors have seemed all to keen to insert themselves into the story - which frankly is becoming increasingly off-putting. Egan has, possibly, gone the opposite way and almost downplayed her impact on the case, and the impact that the case has had on her. There are some passages which do explain some of the impact of the frustration and the effort required in staying with what was obviously a conviction that was highly suspect had on everyone in the team that eventually came together to fight for Andrew Mallard's innocence.This wasn't just a family refusing to accept that a son could not have done this terrible murder. Egan herself was convinced to get involved based on evidence from the police and the conduct of the trial. John Quigley, WA barrister, solicitor, member of State Parliament, currently, I believe, Shadow Attorney General paid a heavy price, going from being the lawyer for the WA Police Union for 20 years, and an honorary life member, to the man who stood against the Police in questioning their conduct of Mallard's case, and ultimately to an accusation of bringing the legal profession into disrepute. Regardless of what slings and arrows were thrown at Mallard's team during their pursuit of justice, ultimately, leave to appeal the conviction before the High Court of Australia was granted. That Court bought down a ruling that was extremely critical of the West Australian courts, and ultimately, Andrew Mallard's innocence was proven once and for all, when a WA Police Cold Case review found hard physical evidence that showed the killer was another man, already found guilty of a similar murder, and dead from a suicide in the WA Penal system.Leaving aside the appalling situation of his conviction, the saddest, most profoundly disturbing thing about this book is how a young, fragile and vulnerable man had his life taken away from him, and how he still struggles to make something of what is left to him. The state of Compensation for such a blatant miscarriage of justice in WA makes your blood boil. The appalling situation that Pamela Lawrence's family were placed in stays with me, as does the effect on Mallard's own family. The upside of the book is that final line in the blurb of the book: "It is about justice, survival and what can happen when good people take on the system". The Hon. Michael Kirby AC CMG, Past Justice of the High Court of Australia is quoted on the back of the book: 'Even great courts and independent judges can sometimes get things wrong. Reading this book, we should resolve to strengthen our defences against miscarriages of justice.' Exactly.