It was getting late. Anita made another cup of tea. The three of us sat around the small table in the kitchen; their kids had fallen asleep, and Paul’s eyes were red from crying. He said, ‘After Tony died I didn’t even want to think about music. I remember lying on the floor — this is about a year later — and thinking, “Everything’s gone, the group’s dead, Kevin’s left, it’s the end of it. What’s the point without Bones?” And then Anita says, “Come on. Don’t let it die.” And slowly I started again. It was Tony’s death that gave me a determination to keep the band going. It’s given me more drive, more steel, more inspiration to continue this. Tony is written over everything we do.’
He brought in new musicians, and renamed the band Sex and Chocolate 2.0. They’ve become a popular live attraction, playing clubs, corporate events, weddings — in 2014, they were voted the best wedding entertainers in Queensland by the Australian Bridal Industry Academy.
Oh yes, he said, the story most definitely had a moral. It was to do with his best friend, that nice guy from the Bay of Plenty who was fiercely loved, who enjoyed his life, who lived the dream. He said, ‘Bones came here for the good life. He wanted that dream. This is the place to do it. The Gold Coast. Dreams — they can happen here.’
Chapter 13
The Rotorua Three: Clint Rickards
TVNZ creamed TV3 with the story.
— Phil Kitchin, Louise Nicholas: My Story
1
We met a week after Queen’s Birthday 2015 at a café around the corner from where I live in Te Atatu. It was good to see him again. I had stayed in touch with Clint Rickards after the Auckland High Court trials of 2006 and 2007, when Louise Nicholas and then another woman accused him of taking part in a horrifying pack-rape with two other brutes, all policemen. The women said that they were violated with scarcely believable instruments of pain — a police baton, and a whiskey bottle. Two juries found the accusations scarcely believable. Rickards, then a figure of supreme authority as assistant commissioner of police and Auckland district commander, was found not guilty of all charges. Of course his life was ruined by the scandal, and he was forced out of the police. We’d meet every now and then at a café in Pt Chevalier frequented by the mentally ill, shambling outpatients from a nearby drug rehab clinic, and a nice old dear who topped up her tea with gin. It was my local and I liked it there, but I had another reason for choosing the venue to catch up with Rickards: it was clandestine. I wasn’t ashamed to be seen with him, but I was wary of someone recognising him and wanting to cause a scene. Rickards didn’t exactly travel incognito. He was massive, and distinctive with his shaved head and deep-set eyes. When I emailed to meet, he replied: Yep just not at that crap café.
In 2015, Louise Nicholas was made an Officer of the New Zealand Order of Merit in the Queen’s Birthday honours list, named Anzac of the Year, and gave a speech at the parade grounds of the Royal New Zealand Police College to the 36 new police officers who graduated from the Louise Nicholas Recruit Wing. She said to media of the Queen’s Birthday gong: ‘For all the bad crap that’s gone on, so much good has come from it.’ Human Rights Commissioner Jackie Blue congratulated Nicholas on her Anzac award in a press release: ‘All of us are indebted to Louise’s staggering courage and refusal to accept injustice.’ Governor-General Jerry Mateparae presented the Anzac award, and read from a prepared statement: ‘Louise’s personal experience of harm and trauma has resulted in an ongoing commitment to help victims of sexual assault and to enable affirmative cultural change.’ Constable Shaun Murphy, one of the new police graduates, told reporters of the high regard they held for their patron: ‘She’s inspirational and has told us to always put the needs of the victims at the heart of what we do.’
Rickards said at the Te Atatu café: ‘She’ll be made a Dame one day. Telling you now.’ He’s probably right, and he said it in all due seriousness with a laugh and a shrug. He was a lot less bitter than the last time we spoke, a lot more relaxed. The second we walked inside, a man called out, ‘Clint! How’s it going, mate?’ He was on the board of the Waipareira Trust, which employed Rickards after he was acquitted. Rickards now works as a lawyer. He studied for his degree at Auckland University, and was admitted into the bar at a ceremony held at the Auckland High Court, which he had experienced during his own trials as a circle of hell. He practised criminal law; I’d read the manuscript of his unpublished memoir, which included his account of an unexpected approach: ‘I get all sorts ringing me asking for help. One of the most bizarre, and least deserving, was Samurai sword madman Antonie Dixon, who called from prison, wanting to give me $20K for reviewing his file, just so he could get a “police perspective”. He was dead two weeks later.’
He worked on Treaty settlements for five years. But the main claims were settled, and he returned to criminal defence work to make ends meet. It was the usual rats-and-mice stuff — assault, burglary, traffic offences — but he stepped away from sexual offences for obvious reasons. In April 2015, one of his clients made the news — a 21-year-old Pacific Islander was accused of beating up a police officer. Rickards said he liked the work, although it didn’t pay much. He had begun
