Tear Gas and Takeaway

The morning peak hour traffic ebbed as we commenced our patrol. The first few hours of our shift had, as always, been spent safely parked in the City Botanical Gardens avoiding the commuting public’s focussed determination to reach their destination without the need for spatial awareness.

As the minor traffic accidents cleared, we prepared to face the mean streets of Brisbane. Our vigilance had been sharpened by the full caffeinated goodness of a 20 cent cup of coffee from Kadoo’s Belly Button Restaurant. This special elixir (from their exclusive “Barely Drinkable” range of gourmet beverages) tasted like it had been filtered through the crotch of a vagrant’s trousers.

Suddenly, the police radio crackled to life: “VKR to any unit, any unit to attend, breaker on premises Dutton Park.”

Mark snatched up the radio handset and declared our proximity to current events before proceeding with focussed determination, but without lights or siren, to our new destination. Driving in a manner that might ordinarily be too fast and on too many sides of the road, his Kadoo-assisted spatial awareness found us making our way quietly up the driveway at the side of the house only a minute or two later.?

Stepping from the car it was hard not to notice the distant white wall that loomed across the back fence.

Sneaking up the stairs, I saw that the back door had been recently renovated in the pleasing post-apocalyptic style that was popular with the bogan house remodellers of the time. We entered quietly and followed the sound of rummaging to the master bedroom. Peeking inside, we saw Peanut tearing through a cupboard with his back to us. Mark motioned for me to enter to the left and he entered to the right. As I took my prescribed position, Mark announced our presence. Peanut jumped out of his skin while simultaneously twisting to see what had crept up behind him, turning himself into a pretzel.

His escape attempt included all of the resistance that you would expect from a bread-based lifeform. Mark flattened him out, kneaded him generously and left him to rest until his gluten relaxed.?

As we walked him to the car, I glanced again at the bright white prison walls. Their gleaming presence had provided no obvious deterrent to Peanut, but they did seem to add a certain majestic elegance to an otherwise ordinary suburban neighbourhood.

H.M. Prison Brisbane hadn’t always been the sparkling epitome of incarceration excellence. From early on it was known as Boggo Road Gaol, being named after the track on which it had been built in 1883. This track had been constructed to exacting government standards by Queensland Transport’s ancient predecessor. When the rains came, as they always do in Brisbane, the road became so boggy that it was useless for its fundamental purpose as a thoroughfare. The government rectified this serious problem in 1903 by renaming it Annerley Road. This early feat of engineering was just the beginning and to this day the Department of Transport and Main Roads continues its proud tradition of building roads to a colonial standard.

In the beginning, Boggo Road Gaol was a place of endings. By 1913 forty-two of its occupants had stretched their legs in the exercise yard before their necks were stretched on the gallows.Then the government decided on less chiropractic methods to amend convict behaviour.

Further rehabilitations occurred in the 1960s, with the addition of 30-metre high walls and such luxuries as cold running water and toilets in the cells. A day spa known as the "black hole" was even constructed under the oval for prisoners deserving of some extra pampering.

Then, in much the same way as Cyclone Tracy had reformed the Darwin landscape, the 1970s brought a cleansing wind of change to Boggo Road. The prisoner community were the vanguard of a revolution, determined to overthrow the shackles of oppression that bound not only them, but everyone in society. Their message found expression through the theatre of riots, fires and hunger strikes.

Happily, these noble guerillas did not fight alone. A clandestine network of dreamers and fighters - the Prisoners Action Group and the rebellious voices of university radio station 4ZZZ - became their lifeline to the outside world, amplifying their vital message of resistance.

Through no fault of their own, the inmates found themselves in places like Boggo Road when Judges and Magistrates decided that their tearful stories of imaginary childhood deprivations could no longer prevent them from being awarded a custodial sentence for their latest selfless contributions to society.

This injustice burned in the inmates’ hearts, and in 1983, D Wing burned with equal intensity. The fire brigade fought the flames of retribution, while above brave battlers drained their benevolent bladders, unleashing on the firemen with their own mighty hoses.

Acting quickly as rioting and fires roiled Boggo Road in 1986, the Acting Prison Superintendent called the Acting Commissioner of Police to advise that he had ordered his officers to abandon the prison, leaving it to the tender mercies of its inhabitants. He requested that police officers secure the perimeter.

For the southside crews of Brisbane Mobile Patrols, securing the perimeter meant endlessly driving the track that separated the outer prison walls from the perimeter fence. For most of this journey the separation between these barriers was a reasonable distance. The northern section of this route, however, narrowed to fit between the outer fence and a cell block.

Encouraged by our presence, the fearless freedom fighters inside spent their valuable time excreting emblems of emancipation into metal buckets and, on each lap, showered us with messages of liberation through the windows of their cells.

Unless you drove quickly enough, the car resonated with a symphony of splats and squelches as the diamond white exterior transformed into a beige Jackson Pollock.?

Police vehicles at the time were not burdened by air conditioning, so each lap commenced with winding the windows up. Once safely past the cells, the windows were wound back down, careful that no expressionist artwork dripped inside the cabin.

Sometimes the mere quantity of emancipation that rained from the heavens indicated the need for a diet less brimming with fibre. Or, maybe it was just our good fortune to be rostered on after a dodgy vindaloo.

Tedium was the biggest problem. At muster we were often told not to antagonise the prisoners with our witty banter or shine our spotlights on the cells at night. But, being our two main sources of entertainment, these pleas went largely unheeded.?

The standard BMP cure for monotony was a quiet game of 500, played with another willing crew on the boot of the car. But, the frequent coats of liquid freedom on our cars necessitated a new diversion: The Boggo Road Perimeter Contest.

The objective was simple: to coast in neutral for the longest distance from the start of the northern stretch. All that was required was a decent run up from the starting point at the front gate. Victorious contestants marked each new record by advancing the position of a witch's hat.

The real challenge came as performance improved. The further our achievements extended down the track, the closer the witch’s hat got to the cell block. This was accompanied by an increased reluctance to exit the vehicle to move the marker of victory.?

But as the police hierarchy had taught us: it’s better to be shit on than bored.

In December 1986, the embers of discontent erupted into yet another inferno. In a generous act of self-sacrifice, prisoners in No.2 Division set fire to their meagre government-issued possessions. Flames licked at the prison walls, a bonfire of indignant rage. Six of the boldest climbed to the roof of F Wing, shouting their demands for justice to the outside world. These righteous warriors had tasted freedom, and they wouldn't relinquish it easily. Then at? midnight they tasted tear gas and relinquished it far less arduously than originally thought.

From all outward appearances, 1987 was a year of bliss and harmony, but darker forces were at work. November brought unconfirmed reports of a plot by militant Aboriginal prisoners to smuggle rifles into the prison and seize control during World Expo '88. The day spa that had been closed in 1984 was quickly reopened and several prisoners were treated to rejuvenating deep tissue massages.

Two hundred freedom fighters from No.1 and No.2 Divisions reacted in riotous defiance. Liberation was their battle cry, a clarion call that echoed through the corridors of their concrete confines. This was not just another prison riot. With each act of rebellion, they felt the chains of tyranny loosening, even as tear gas choked their lungs and batons thwacked their spotty flesh.

An uneasy tension remained until February 1988 when a prisoner with the imaginative name of Spider encouraged a warder to shoot him. Riled by the spontaneous outburst of pest control, the prison erupted again in riot. But Spider’s unfortunate lead poisoning highlighted a more serious issue. So, hundreds of prisoners went on hunger strike, their bodies becoming weapons in a virtuous war of attrition. These gallant martyrs were willing to lay down their lives for this vital cause.? If prisoner rights were about anything, they were about animal rights.

On the twelfth day of the hunger strike five prisoners ascended to the roof of F Wing, living beacons of defiance against the Queensland sky. One of these proud activists had bravely earned his place on the roof by raping an 84 year old woman. Not to suggest that the others lacked his level of commitment but they only had convictions for house breaking, burglary, and grievous bodily harm.

The usual assortment of citizen activists and supporters congealed on the footpath outside the prison. 4ZZZ encouraged passing motorists to blast their defiant car horns, like a modern day battle of Jericho. Sadly, instead of the great walls toppling to the ground in righteous triumph, they were issued with tickets for "Undue Sounding of a Warning Device."

For five days, the warriors stood defiant, their demands for justice painted boldly on bedsheets and the prison roof. These humble martyrs were prepared to die for their cause, their starvation a testament to their unwavering commitment.

And for five days, Waldo and I took our meal breaks across the road at Ribbetts. According to their advertising, Ribbetts were the pizza and pork rib specialists who also specialised in pasta and seafood. They also excelled at turning the word specialised into a generality.

As a clear indication of the class of this establishment, patrons were welcomed to the converted house by a man-sized green frog that stood erect next to the entrance, dressed only in a red bow tie.

Each meal break we would place our flimsy aluminium trays on the bonnet of our car, hoping the starving activists got a perfect view of the indulgent bed of baked potatoes upon which a scattering of pork ribs had been strewn before being drowned in rich plum sauce. Consuming this feast under the watchful gaze of a naked amphibian, we waited vainly for the pricks on the roof to croak. Instead, their shouts of delight and vigorous hand gestures implied that the sight of our enjoyment provided them with just the encouragement and motivation that they deserved.

Only months into Fitzgerald’s outrageously successful inquiry into police activities, the Government announced that the prison guards would have an inquiry all of their own. Confident that this action had been motivated by their fearlessness, the paragons of virtue surrendered the roof.

Their bodies were gaunt from hunger but their spirits remained unbroken. A fire engine was recruited for the task of returning them to terra firma. Sadly, their bladders had been depleted from their time on the roof, so their hoses were not unfurled on this occasion.

Not as welcoming of inquisitions as the police, the prison officers went on strike. Suffering under the common misconception that coppers are ten times better than warders, the police hierarchy ensured that Boggo Road's 350 prison officers were adequately replaced inside the walls by a staff of 35 police and the Tactical Response Group.?

For our part, Waldo and I were restored to driving monotonous circles around the prison.? Eventually, our personal best achievements in the Perimeter Contest were recognised and the warders returned to work.

Then, just before lights-out on a quiet Friday night in September 1988, five of nature’s finest penetrated an impenetrable overhead grill in the maximum-security block and made their way up along the guard’s catwalk to one of the big white walls. Using the 24-metre ropes that they had fashioned from some old wire and 80 bed sheets that they had lying around in the spare room, they lowered themselves to the ground, sprinted across a section of open ground and scaled the outer fence to freedom.

This was Queensland’s largest prison breakout of the modern era. And then it wasn’t.

The 11th of March 1989 is a significant date in Queensland history. It was the first day in years that Waldo and I could actually be found in our designated patrol area. As punishment for our slavish compliance with the rules, we were miles away when the action kicked off, requiring five or six minutes of enthusiastic non-compliance with entire chapters of the Traffic Act just to get close to where the fun was.

That afternoon, Boggo Road Gaol bustled with mundane activity. Prisoners were scattered across the No.1 Division oval, some warmed up for the sport that was soon to come, others drifted between visits, hospital appointments, and telephone calls. Prison officers were in the throes of a shift change, and a laundry van was preparing to depart, its engine humming with the promise of escape.?

The hydraulic inner gates yawned open to release the van. Thirty prison athletes surged forward, a human tide of freedom intent on scaling a six-metre internal fence in the scant thirty seconds before they closed. It proved too much for many, but eight succeeded. A ninth? was disqualified for dangling by the leg and impeding the gate's further progress. Displaying a slavish compliance with the rules, the outer gate refused to open until the inner was fully closed. In the absence of a lucky amputation, a revised plan was required.

In appreciation of being shown a replica firearm and homemade 'zip gun,' a gate officer made a gift of his keys. The fun runners slipped through a side door and fanned across the area in front of the prison. A sports-loving tower guard unleashed two shots from his prison-issue M1 carbine but managed only to strike things of significance. If he had hit nothing of significance, he would have hit an escapee.

Meanwhile, warders from No.2 Division armed themselves and gave chase in a van, eager to prevent any further proliferation of freedom.

Across the road, the Mobiles crew of Fenelon and Smith had just ordered a sumptuous meal at Ribbetts. Abandoning their banquet to investigate the commotion, they pursued a van that was, in turn, chasing a taxi. A prison officer protruded through the van’s sunroof, firing with gusto in the direction of the taxi. The escapees soon returned to fun running, vanishing into the depths of a railway tunnel. As Fenno and Smithy entered the tunnel on foot, bullets ricocheting near their heads alerted them to the fact that their blue uniforms and police insignia made them look remarkably like escaping prisoners. They wisely retreated to their deserted meals, leaving the escapees and their trigger-happy captors to the tunnel's dank embrace.

Because of our indiscretion, Waldo and I turned into Annerley Road too late to drive into oncoming bullets.

We joined the search, aggressively patrolling the area before being diverted to a possible sighting in a quiet, sleepy street in Dutton Park. Arriving at the address, we carefully observed absolutely nothing out of the ordinary at the front.

Guns drawn, we each took a side of the high-set Queenslander, moving quietly, keeping each other in sight as we made equal progress towards the backyard.

Suddenly we froze. Was that a noise? Pausing to listen, all we heard was silence. We pressed on to our rendezvous at the back door, where hopefully some noisier excitement awaited.

Sadly, there were no signs of forced entry at the rear: no shattered glass or broken locks. But, a noise and no signs of entry could mean a hostage situation. We needed to get inside to make sure. With careful precision, Waldo renovated the back door in the post-apocalyptic style that was popular at the time and we stormed inside.

Nothing.

Our thorough search revealed no hidden criminals, no terrified hostages and no signs of disturbance. It was just an empty house that would have been very neat and orderly if it wasn’t for the architraves hanging untidily from the door frame.

In a moment of amateur carpentry, we nudged the architraves back into place and I banged a few wayward nails back home with the butt of a Ruger .357 magnum. Closing the door gently behind us, we left to prosecute justice and spontaneous woodwork somewhere else.

Over the next few days I perused the Occurrence Sheets for reports of a break and enter at that address but it seems that the homeowner never noticed our untidy intervention in the neat tapestry of their life.

Within a fortnight the champions of liberty were rounded up and rehoused. One was cruelly shot by NSW Police for the crime of eating a hamburger. Unbeknownst to the coppers, McDonalds was running a promotion that offered a dollar off your next meal if you waved a sawn-off shotgun while shouting, “I’m going to kill you.”?

Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to claim his discount before he too was returned to an idyllic prison world. A world where mattresses roast slowly on the fire and shit rains softly from the sky.