by Chris Smith
You feel resentment for my past mistakes. Yes, I made some mistakes and lied to you! You know I am sorry for this and wish I could change that. We will never trust each other if you constantly bring up these stupid things I have done and punish me over and over. If you can’t get over that, stop the destructive pattern and stop seeing me. I really hope you can, Phillip, because I would miss you terribly.
I can be a moody bitch at times and I am trying to stop this. (PMS is hard!!) I am aware when I am being unreasonable, but find it hard to say I’m sorry sometimes.
I can honestly say that I adore you, think you are sexy and intelligent and miss you constantly when I am not with you. I am going to put 100% towards you, because I think if we can get through it, we can be very happy together. We both want the same things out of life—love, fun, not too much work, children and really good sex!
I hope you will decide to put 100% towards us, Phillip—please don’t force yourself.
I love you …
Libby
xxxxxxxxxoo
P.S. Don’t worry so much, you have a girl who adores you, thinks of you constantly and would die if you left her!!
The police prosecutor was having none of this. He presumed it was a fake and wasn’t about to let the defence team get away with it.
‘How about we get a handwriting expert in now and we’ll see who wrote the letter, Your Honour? Libby Masters was not known to be a letter-writer and made no reference to writing such letters. She’s not here to defend herself either, so how about we have the letter examined and if it’s legitimate we have nothing to argue. If not, the prosecution will submit to the court that the defendant face further charges. If, in the circumstances of a mere sentence submission, such a thorough test is impractical, how then can this so-called letter be accepted as evidence?’
The previously in-control Pincott was flawed. He didn’t expect opposition to a mere letter, let alone a killer punch from the normally calm police prosecutor. Pincott grabbed for some other papers in front of him, gabbled that Libby had been under stress and agreed very quietly that there was no need to have his client’s letter subject to another few weeks of scrutiny. It was removed from his list of pre-sentence submissions. The big-talking, highly regarded QC was knocked for six and Peattie knew his prosecutor had scored a direct hit.
Phillip’s father immediately turned to his son and whispered a short message. Hopkins pulled his head out of his mother’s lap and sat very still. Peattie watched his reaction and presumed that the accused had just been quietly admonished. His mother looked concerned and his father was clearly unsettled. It was apparent that their faith in their son was slowly being eroded. They were unaccustomed to such ignominy.
The senior prosecutor had his turn and told of a crazed man, unable to leave Libby alone and capable of violence in relationships. He then used the testimony of all the other women who’d had the courage to come forward to police following the television story as a battering ram against any further attempt to mitigate Hopkins’ guilt. The impact of so many stories so similar in nature was the final straw for Hopkins.
‘Garbage!’ Phillip muttered, audible to all in the court. This was his past emerging and it hit a raw nerve. It was a past he thought he’d buried, certainly one he thought would never be connected to Libby Masters. His violent deeds against Simone Crowe were a distant memory, nothing to do with what he was now facing. At least he had thought it was a memory. Now Libby had unearthed the past and thrown it back in his face—without even being in the courtroom—in front of his parents and friends. Magistrate Moore had to intervene to put a stop to Hopkins’ utterances.
The court was reminded that Hopkins’ assault on Libby had been proved. It would attract a conviction under the terms of his bond if the magistrate found any of the charges in the current case proven. He found Libby’s statement to be truthful and was supported by the AVO Simone Crowe had taken out against Hopkins many years earlier.
Magistrate Alan Moore slammed Hopkins for his relentless pursuit of power over Libby. Yes he needed ‘help’ he stated, but it was no excuse for the games he played. His violent tendencies made his nocturnal behaviour even more threatening and a custodial sentence was the ‘only appropriate punishment’.
Hopkins was sentenced to a fixed term of imprisonment of six months. A gasp of shock echoed through the small courtroom from those on Hopkins’ side of the gallery. Even backdated to his first night in jail, he would not be emerging until the New Year. It was one of the toughest jail terms ever handed down under the new stalking laws introduced to NSW three years earlier. It was nowhere near the maximum of five years, but it was still a significant sentence and almost satisfied the expectations of Detective Peattie. Hopkins dropped his head in resignation and disbelief. His parents were shattered.
‘The sentence will include constant psychiatric counselling, both during his prison term and after his release. Take the prisoner away,’ ordered the magistrate.
The sheriff of the court grabbed Hopkins’ arm abruptly. Kathryn Hopkins sobbed in the arms of her husband. Their son was being forced to endure another four and a half months inside; they could barely control their grief. But there was no getting away from the truth; it was Phillip Hopkins who’d taken his own route to self-destruction; he only had himself to blame. Perhaps it was lucky one of his victims hadn’t chosen a more violent course to end his constant stalking. Libby had certainly contemplated it many times.
Later that afternoon, a prison van took Hopkins west, along Epping Road, down onto Pennant Hills road and into O’Connell Street … to an even more spartan prison than he’d become used to: the old Parramatta Gaol. These cold, stony lodgings were to be Hopkins’ crude home until his release.
‘Congratulations, Libby,’ I informed her by phone. ‘He’s gone until next year—six months inside.’
She drew in a deep breath, completely vindicated. It had been worth the public exposure and dogged fight in court after all. He’d earned a massive rebuke and Libby recognised how harsh his environment was about to become. This was a mighty victory for Libby Masters over a series of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. She had little to say to me except what sounded like a heartfelt thanks.
I handed the phone to Jane Hansen, who was quick to offer Libby support and they agreed to keep in touch. Their bond was strong. Jane had done everything in her power to publicly humiliate Hopkins and pressure the system to act appropriately. The women were bolshy comrades who’d taken on the aggressor and won.
In reality, although we all wanted to stay close, it was never likely to happen. It would keep her nightmare far too alive and real to be continually reminded of it by our presence. We arranged a get-together, which I repeatedly postponed because of work commitments. But knowing what it was we had in common, I just couldn’t see any advantage for Libby anyway. We lost contact for near on a full decade.
As to the question of whether it was truly over, Libby knew that such a drastic punishment, in such a dangerous and fearful environment, would shake Hopkins like he’d never been shaken before. She knew he would be on the verge of breakdown: he would be forced to view his perpetual game for what it was: cruelty beyond comprehension, which no one should be forced to bear, let alone several women at one time.
Would he come back to take revenge? she wondered. It was possible. Right from the start of A Current Affair’s involvement with her, I’d explained what a rock-solid insurance policy Libby was taking out by going so public. ‘The world would always know who was threatening and frightening you,’ I’d told her.
Libby had thought about that a lot since she was first approached by the program. She wasn’t frightened of what might happen come his release on 2 January. Not yet anyway.
She knew Hopkins was now fully aware of the steps she was prepared to take to reclaim her life. Her support team was too influential for even his guile and skill. He was surely not prepared to risk being caught again, to face the ignominy of his guilt and, moreover,
another round of incarceration.
As Libby cleaned up after dinner that night, her phone rang, just after nine. She wondered who could be calling now. She’d already spent much of the evening fielding calls of support, which had become a tiresome replay of the whole ordeal.
‘Hello, Libby speaking.’
‘Um, Libby is it?’ It was a man’s voice.
‘Yes,’ she replied cautiously. ‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s Sergeant Kennedy here, from Mosman Police.’
It was the officer who’d given Libby a stern talking to about not wasting police time when Hopkins’ defence produced the Telstra records appearing to show that she’d been harassing him.
‘Yes, go ahead,’ she said.
‘I just wanted to call to say you are a brave and inspiring young woman, Libby. That’s all. I was wrong to think you staged this case and I apologise unreservedly. All of us at the station apologise. We were wrong, and we all want you to know how sorry we are. You have got this bastard, no thanks to us … That’s all.’
Libby was speechless. Her lip quivered; she found herself weak with emotion. It was an unnecessary, but touching gesture, which brought a tear to her eye. The call capped off a long and harrowing twelve months, and the words she’d just heard were more genuine than any she’d heard that day.
The embarrassing calls to police, their continual eye-rolling upon being called out at night, had stayed with her like a thorn all this time. The call she’d received was as cleansing as any prison sentence or television story. It gave her back her dignity; she was known to be a woman who told the truth. It was the perfect end to the most imperfect part of her entire life.
Malcolm Hopkins had taken his son’s sentence hard. Whatever it took, he was going back to court to appeal. The cost was not a consideration. His wife’s heart had been broken, and any consolation they could get during this dark time in their lives would be worth whatever they paid for it.
The appeal went to the Downing Centre within three weeks of Hopkins’ sentencing. It was a quick turnaround that had even surprised police. They suspected that Malcolm Hopkins had used his influence to expedite the matter, but it was pure supposition. A new silk had been briefed for the appeal: Clive Steirn QC. The case was brought before District Court Judge Joseph Phelan. The Hopkins family could not have hoped for a better roster. Detective Peattie told his colleagues that he felt the QC Steirn must have gone judge shopping to extract something from a messy, lost case.
After just over four hours, during which no witnesses were called, only briefs submitted, Judge Phelan had developed firm views on the case. He was unconvinced about the phone tampering, despite the evidence, and was dissatisfied with the lower court’s ruling. His words from the bench began in an encouraging way for the police and prosecution.
‘I think I am obliged to increase the earlier sentence,’ he said. ‘This is almost unappealable and I’m glad the charges were treated seriously from the start. Mr Hopkins breached orders and bail. This is unacceptable. I see evidence of letters and phone calls and attempts to contact those who should be protected under these orders. He may be sending himself to jail for a year. I need to increase the magistrate’s penalty and I quash that decision of “six months fixed”.’
The prosecutor turned slightly towards Peattie, as if to celebrate. The comments seemed contrary to Phelan’s reputation, but he was happy to accept any addition. How heartening for the victims to know that the judiciary was so prepared to punish their tormentors.
‘I sentence Mr Hopkins to twelve months’ imprisonment …’ Phelan said, before pausing. ‘But I make this ruling by handing down a minimum sentence of three months’ hard labour, backdated to the time of his first imprisonment. Furthermore, I order the Department of Corrective Services to ensure that Mr Hopkins has psychiatric guidance inside and when he gets out. From that point, the prisoner will not assault, threaten, molest or stalk within 500 metres of Libby Masters.’
The gavel hit the bench, compounding Detective Peattie’s absolute shock. He’d done a total about-face and, as they all knew, under Truth in Sentencing legislation, any prisoner serving a maximum of three years or less is automatically released on parole when the minimum expires. His appeal had reduced his sentence—his release date was only one month away! The police were not surprised by Judge Joseph Phelan’s sentence. They knew their man. They had witnessed many defendants receiving rulings unpopular with the police. He’d given Hopkins an early exit card and it was a major blow to the prosecution, undoing the good work the lower court had put in place.
Peattie telephoned Libby later that afternoon and told her the outcome of Hopkins’ appeal. Funnily enough, she was not overly concerned. It was three months off his sentence, but she remained focused on the three months of hell that Hopkins was currently enduring. She knew that she’d given him the fright of his life. His release would come all too soon, but surely he’d learnt some lessons from the brutality of prison life.
Part of her resignation may have stemmed from the fact that she had become almost desensitised to the court process. She was now adept at bracing herself for a less than favourable outcome. The conclusion of the District Court Appeal now signalled the official end to a very messy public case in which Libby had always been a very reluctant participant.
18
REMEMBER ME
On the day of Hopkins’ release from Parramatta Gaol, he was more than ready to leave. He could barely contain himself when he entered the guard room to collect his few belongings. He quickly signed the appropriate paperwork and was escorted to the two sets of large, bolted cast-iron doors at the front of the ageing prison complex.
He’d been counting down the days ever since he first entered and was thirsting to experience freedom again. There was no doubt that he was desperate for it.
Libby was not too distracted by the significance of the day, but edgy enough to feel a little fragile as she ploughed through her work. The phone on her desk rang about mid-morning. There hadn’t been many calls that day and, as it rang, she sensed it might be related to the release of Phillip Hopkins.
She stared at the phone for a short time, wondering whether a prison or police officer was calling to notify her of his release. She wasn’t aware of any requirement for that to happen and quickly dismissed her musings as nervous paranoia and picked up the handset and answering as she would for any other, work-related call.
‘Hello, Libby Masters speaking,’ she said brightly.
There was a pause at the other end and, in the background she could here the sound of traffic and a hum of voices in the distance. Then there was a deep breath before that familiar voice came down the line:
‘I’m out now. I just wanted to let you know that.’
There was no mistaking it; it was him.
‘It’s you! You can’t call me, you know that. What are you doing?’
‘I rang to tell you I won’t be bothering you anymore,’ replied the former prisoner Phillip Hopkins, in a plain, cold voice.
‘Why are you calling me then?’ she asked.
He didn’t answer her question.
After a pause, the phone went dead.
EPILOGUE
For the players in this story, the decade after these events proved an eventful period. In 2001 the man who had finally put Phillip Hopkins away, Detective Sergeant Ray Peattie, was himself sent to jail for four years on charges of corruption. He was caught on tape taking bribes and overseeing some of his troops doing the same. He confessed to almost an entire career ‘on the take’, falsely prosecuting suspects and protecting major players in the heroin trade throughout Sydney, especially during his time as a Drug Squad detective. Another two officers under his command and attached to the Manly Detectives’ Unit were caught red-handed, on tape, by the Police Integrity Commission and jailed for corruption too. Peattie has since been released.
In 2004 Phillip Hopkins’ father Malcolm left his executive position on the board of a multinational i
nsurance giant after a dramatic purge of directors and senior managers in the organisation. The company had been misfiring, losing potential profits and dropped the ball on a deal involving a major bank. The newly appointed CEO and Malcolm Hopkins didn’t see eye to eye. He left with a golden handshake, retired and is not pursuing any directorships.
He did, however, provide financial backing to Phillip, in a small business he started soon after his release from prison. The venture met with mixed success.
Meanwhile, Libby Masters is living with her partner and their baby daughter in a Northern Beaches suburb. She says she had recovered from the memories of that period of her life ten years ago and is very happy, particularly in her new relationship. But as this story neared publication Libby Masters found it difficult to liaise on the project. She had good reason to. The memories, the heartache and the cruelty she suffered were not something she wished to share with her new family. Libby had moved on, but encouraged me to write her story. She has not experienced a single stalking incident since the day Hopkins was released from prison.
My only additional contact with the serial stalker came indirectly, through a phone call two years after his imprisonment to my desk at Channel Nine. A friend was enquiring about a Phillip Hopkins who she had a hunch had been the subject of one of my televised investigations. Her friend had ‘connected’ with Hopkins and she was concerned over a few inexplicable incidents early in their relationship. I was gobsmacked that his name would crop up again like this. Without hesitation, I warned her to instruct her girlfriend to dump Hopkins immediately before it went too far.
