by Chris Smith
In the short term Detective Sergeant Peattie had enough to put Hopkins away behind bars. It wasn’t the local bail sergeant that would get in his way; it was the legal system and all its adversarial nuances he was worried about. How would his brief stand up against a rich kid’s defence team? If justice meant anything, it must be prepared to stand up for Libby and the other victims, and send a message to Hopkins and those like him.
The ministerial memo prevented him from speaking to Hopkins early enough to get anything from him. In the company of his father and local defence attorney, Hopkins refused to answer any questions. Bail was refused and Hopkins found himself in a prison van on his way to Long Bay gaol, and his first night as a prisoner of the state of NSW. And Libby, for the first time in months, would have a peaceful night’s sleep.
PART FOUR:
A LONG TIME COMING
15
IN THE VICE
‘Not guilty you’re worship,’ bellowed one of Sydney’s top silks, Maxim Pincott QC, at the magistrate, Alan Moore.
It was mid-July 1996 at the Manly local court. The well-to-do Malcolm Hopkins had hired a legal monolith to defend his son. There was no expense spared. His approach was full-throttle and he didn’t plan to leave the court without his clean-cut, private school-educated son Phillip, discarding the title of ‘the prisoner Hopkins’ and regaining a clean slate. Or rather a cleaner slate … there was nothing he could do about Phillip’s brushes with the law several years ago, nor his escape from lawful custody and bond for assault. Money couldn’t wash those deeds away.
After the local prosecutor had gone through the charges and statement of facts, up rose Maxim Pincott QC like a Goliath ready to pulverise his David. The argument was forceful, albeit predictable: this was the fantasy of a mentally-ill young woman, who had never recovered from his client’s rejections, and only sought to besmirch all that he had left, his reputation.
The QC vowed to prove two very important points; that Libby was still intent on drawing Phillip Hopkins back into her web, and that she was indeed suffering from a mental illness. Additionally, he maintained, the video evidence available to the court had been fabricated by television producers hell-bent on claiming a scalp and making headlines with a big-rating exposé. Libby was using the media to put his client behind bars.
‘Pure prime time fantasy your worship. They are past masters at this,’ snorted Pincott.
Detective Peattie could smell a rat. It was a curious boast to say she was dragging him back into her web: what did they have that could prove that? And how was he planning to determine her current state of mind? ‘This’ll be interesting,’ Peattie whispered to his partner.
‘This man has become the victim. He denies any knowledge of stalking,’ Pincott continued. ‘They have the wrong man.’
Libby, meanwhile, was outside the court, sitting silently, motionless, on the bench near the front steps. She’d probably be called on day one but was not entitled to hear any of the summary opening addresses or any evidence from police witnesses.
Pincott summed up his opening by alleging suspicious police collusion over the recorded material, a heavy-duty accusation to make in any court. Peattie was bristling, his offsider was half out of his seat, and the prosecutor was politely objecting before any evidence had even been presented.
‘Those are fairly tall claims,’ replied Magistrate Moore.
‘Under the circumstances, Your Honour, both valid and justified.’
The fight was on. Pincott knew he needed to force the police and their star witness to scramble under attack and if required, a degree of intimidation would be necessary. This case was certainly not going to be handed to Pincott on a plate. But that was his stock in trade; the learned QC had made quite a career out of snatching victory from probable defeat. He needed to adopt a ‘kill or be killed’ approach, and the aggressive tactics had only just begun.
Libby was not called to the witness box until day two, after a problematic first day for the prosecution, during which Pincott tried to fry the detectives and forensic officers who took the stand. What was normally standard local court procedure, to verbally present their written statements, became a joust, a tormented argument with a superior debater. Pincott had made some of Peattie’s underlings look shaky, scrambling to cover the holes in their evidence. It was not a good start and the attack dragged on for almost the entire day. They clearly hadn’t expected the minute details to be examined so meticulously. But this was a wearing-down process, echoing Hopkins’ own technique.
‘Libby Masters to court one,’ yelled the sheriff from the double doors to the courtroom.
Libby was jolted out of her trance. Her body was already shaking from the cold wind blowing off the harbour, but the call to the stand had her literally trembling.
From the outset, the police prosecutor made every attempt to make her feel comfortable, from allowing Libby to discuss her role at work to how long she’d spent with her family at their current abode and how often she visited the Manly Swim Centre. The calm and measured atmosphere he was creating was disturbed for her by two strange sights directly in front of her in the courtroom.
Sitting on the front defence table, immediately beside the distinguished QC, was a ruddy-faced woman, dressed in a pin-striped women’s business suit. The most alarming aspect of her presence were the woman’s piercing eyes, which appeared to be trained directly and incessantly on Libby. It was a look of disdain and revulsion, which had Libby’s heart pumping. She felt she was being psyched out.
To top it off, there, just a few metres in front of her, to the QC’s left, sat Phillip Hoskins. It had been so long since she had seen him last, seen him without a balaclava at least and in daylight.
It was not only Phillip’s presence that unsettled Libby, however, it was the pathetic way he was attached to his mother that shocked her most. He was laying his head on Kathryn Hopkins’ lap like a scolded dog looking for a pat. And he was getting that pat—his mother’s hand was caressing his temple. Libby knew only too well how Kathryn treated her son, but this stunned her.
This is a freak show, she thought, her focus lost, before trying to pick herself up and get back to the job of giving her evidence clearly and convincingly.
After a little less than one hour, the prosecutor was done. An adjournment was suggested, but Pincott was having none of it. This was his chance to devour the young woman, who was tired and needed a break. He hardly laid eyes on Libby as he questioned how her ordeal had affected her. Was it causing nightmares, strange thoughts?
‘All the time, yes. It’s crazy,’ she said, almost relieved that her enemy was at last recognising her plight and the pressure she’d been under. She had let her guard down so easily. ‘Crazy’ was exactly the word Pincott was looking for.
‘Crazy? Like unstable?’ asked Pincott. ‘It must be enough to drive you crazy, what with the late nights, the supposed visits in a mask by your awful boyfriend. What a nightmare, you must have needed help.’
With that, Pincott approached the witness. ‘You needed help, right?’
‘Yes, I did,’ she agreed reluctantly.
‘Yes, go on. Help from whom?’ pressed Pincott.
‘I saw a psychiatrist,’ she said quietly. ‘I just had to see someone.’
‘Speak up, young lady!’ Pincott bellowed, jolting every person in the courtroom out of their seats.
‘Yes, I did. I had to see someone.’
‘You’re seeing a psychiatrist right?’ pressed Pincott again.
Before Libby could answer, Pincott produced a series of surveillance photos showing Libby entering and leaving the premises of a psychiatric doctor’s office in Neutral Bay, on no less than four occasions. In several of those photos, Libby clearly appeared openly distressed as she left the premises, an emotional wreck. These were personal moments, made grossly public. Her privacy had been invaded yet again, and this time for many more to see. She’d been stalked by the very system that was meant to protect her.
/> ‘You’ve been following me?’ she asked Pincott, interrupting his address to Magistrate Moore.
‘Yes, young lady, we need the truth, and the truth seems to come in short quantities from you!’
An objection was lodged and sustained. Pincott apologised for his curt remark. But from this point on, Pincott used Libby’s now officially fragile state to highlight how unreliable her testimony could be.
‘Well, with all the mental trouble you were experiencing at the time, it’s a wonder you could tell what was happening, who was knocking, who was responsible,’ he said, as he grilled Libby on aspects of what she saw on the nights when Hopkins was allegedly recorded entering her property.
She could not verify most of the sightings A Current Affair had recorded because she wasn’t monitoring the cameras when the intrusions occurred. Pincott tried to discredit Jane Hansen and me, as he fought his case based not on the evidence but on the credibility of those who supplied it. The questioning Libby faced was intimidating and gruelling, made even worse by the stares she continually received from the woman in the pinstriped suit in front of her. Phillip too remained a distraction, as his mother hand-combed his hair. It was a three-pronged assault that had Libby’s head spinning. She was mentally spent, exhausted from the rapid-fire attack. She was powerless to fight, to win any of the points Pincott was raising.
Suddenly, Pincott turned to confer privately with Phillip’s father, and then asked for an adjournment of 24 hours. This was extended due to the court’s commitments in the week ahead. Libby’s part in the process was now over. The police prosecutor thanked her, then Jane Hansen met her outside. I’d been called away on another assignment, but Jane had just returned from directing her crew as they followed Hopkins’ parents out of court, to the car park at the rear.
Jane heaped praise on Libby and told her that her arguments had stood up well. Libby looked drained and said she was heading straight home to hibernate. Being briefed by the prosecutor, four hours in the witness box and three days in and out of court had taken its toll. She said she could not return to the court for a minute longer. ‘I don’t care any more. If that’s what you’ve got to go through to get justice, why bother? Why would any woman bother? That almost killed me in there.’ Tears welled up in her eyes.
Peattie also came over to express his support and thanked Libby for her brave effort in the witness box. She asked that someone call her when the result was eventually known. Libby declined the offer of a lift home. Not to be chased or harassed every second day was one of Libby’s recently won freedoms—and she wanted to make the most of it, in spite of leaving court a tired, defeated mess.
When she reached the bottom of steps, a hand touched her on the shoulder from behind. She was startled and turned quickly to see who it was. She had no idea who the woman was.
‘I’m Simone, Libby. Simone Crowe.’
The women immediately embraced, tears in their eyes. Their hug lasted a long time. Theirs was a bond even they barely understood. It didn’t matter that they had never set eyes on each other before. They were victims to the same tyranny, linked by a relentless quest for justice.
‘You were amazing in there,’ Simone whispered. ‘I was right down the back. You didn’t see me. He can’t get out of this now. He’s gone—and you did it. You did it for everyone. You’re a bloody star!’
‘Stop it. I just did what I could. I just kept going,’ Libby replied.
‘Just like him,’ replied Simone.
They spoke about what was likely to happen to Hopkins. Simone said she felt a compulsion to be at the court, to see him take a fall. Libby thanked her for her help and told her that she had played an important role in keeping her ‘up’ and ‘hopeful’. They parted as friends, connected by grief.
The court reconvened several days later, and it didn’t take long before Pincott was taking an aggressive tack. The chips were down: the scientific evidence was solid; Libby was an authentic witness; the recorded tapes were clearly not doctored. In a dramatic and sudden turnaround, Pincott raised the white flag and Hopkins changed his plea to guilty. He’d lost the battle to be exonerated and had been humiliated beyond comprehension by a woman who just wouldn’t stay down for the count.
‘Guilty as charged then,’ said Magistrate Moore.
‘I find the offences proved and a conviction on the assault is now applied too, as the previous bond conditions dictate. I think we need to seek some psychiatric assistance for Mr Hopkins, Mr Pincott. I’d like to see a report in a week. I’ll take submissions from both sides in a fortnight, and I’ll have a sentence for your client on the nine charges after that. If you’re applying for bail, don’t bother; it’s refused. Mr Hopkins, you can expect some time incarcerated. Case adjourned!’
A wide smile came over Detective Peattie’s face. I leaned over immediately and slapped the officer on the back in an expression of joy. We were all over the moon, not just because we’d helped beat the crook who’d made so many lives so miserable, but we’d been up against stiff opposition: the big-city QC under instructions to beat up on the key witness. Hopkins’ temporary jail term would now be extended: the magistrate had made that clear. Libby had gone through so much. She’d found the most radically public way of forcing the police to act, and that took guts. We were all so pleased for her; our admiration for her tenacity was beyond words.
Late that day, I eventually made contact with Libby at home. She’d been out for most of the afternoon, unable to sit at home waiting for the phone to ring. She’d been through too much already. I told her the good news: ‘He’s put up his hands and pleaded guilty, Libby. He’s going to jail for sure! You’ve done it … you’ve got him. He can’t get out of this now. He’s gonna get what he deserves. This is such a gutsy win for you. Well done!’
At first Libby wasn’t sure what she was hearing. But soon it sank in that the case was indeed over and that her story had been proved undeniably to be true. She could no longer be accused of lying. ‘If only I could see his face,’ she said. ‘He can’t hide his face now.’
Her relief was palpable. It was the vindication that so often during her ordeal she had thought she would never achieve. This was a hard-won victory.
At that very moment, Phillip Hopkins was once again in a Corrective Services van, herded up with four other prisoners, on his way to begin his long-term stint in the harsh confines of Malabar’s Long Bay Gaol …
Libby’s mother and father had walked the ruined path that their daughter had taken. They’d experienced the helplessness of her plight, the sleepless nights. They had witnessed her frustration with the legal system and the very public stance she had taken. They did what Libby wanted throughout; they kept their distance and trusted her instincts to solve her own problems. But even they were flushed with relief. In a touching letter to reporter Jane Hansen, Libby’s mother expressed how appreciative the family was of the work done by Jane and myself in ‘very trying circumstances’. She wrote: ‘Our family is greatly relieved and able to sleep soundly at night, which we have not done for quite some time. Thank you.’
I could see then the impact of stalking not only upon the lives of the victims but also for those who love them so very dearly. It was clear too that Libby’s parents had never been more proud of their daughter.
16
A MAD MIND
Two weeks had passed since the verdict and Hopkins’ grief at being inside indefinitely had begun to abate. He managed to keep out of trouble in Long Bay, and after a while was back doing what he felt comfortable with—seducing his women, this time by remote control.
His target this time was Louise Dent, the 24-year-old corporate finance executive who had never actually been stalked by Phillip and had not had the opportunity to build up the same animosity towards him as some of his other victims. They’d never really broken up and, in spite of his strange behaviour, she told police that they had established some kind of ‘life connection’.
The fourteen-notebook-page-letter he wrote
to her gave the clearest insight yet into the stalker’s deranged mind:
Dear Louise,
Hello Louise. I’ve given a lot of thought to whether I should write to you or not and now that I’ve decided, I’m finding it hard to start. I guess I should start with a few admissions; and allow me to include some explanations as to why I thought it better to mislead you at the time—and then I would like to inform you of the truth and the absolute facts as to where I am, why I am here, and for how long I’ll be here and how my life has changed for the better—perhaps not now; but what I have been through will change the way I will live my life in the future.
I’m in Long Bay Gaol. I have been since 2 July. I’m 30 years old, Louise—never been in trouble of this magnitude before. In fact, in any trouble at all with the law. This time twelve months ago, I would never have thought it possible—even one month ago. Admission #1—I lied to you about where I was on 3 July on the phone. I wasn’t in Victoria, and I know a little about PABX lines, which is why that lie came so easily. #2—I also lied to you the week before about me being sick and so not able to watch Melrose Place with you, or see you at all. Although I wasn’t feeling too well!—I was at Manly Court hoping like hell I would get bail. This didn’t eventuate and I was promptly loaded in a prison van and taken to jail. Incidentally, my Supreme Court bail application a week later also failed—no thanks to statements coming from left, right and centre from panic-stricken girls that had revealed some unfounded private and minor incidents in the occasionally [sic] very short time I knew them and/or from people I thought were my friends and has [sic] continued to be up until now. Or in particular from a girl I went out with for two years, ten years ago. I don’t blame them so much actually—more the police method of questioning. And I don’t blame you for yours. Although I would like you to forgive me for ‘lying a lot’ and perhaps consider seeing me again soon.
