Absent Justice - Preface

Chapter 1: Murder of Truth

The truth didn’t die in a courtroom. It wasn’t buried beneath a judge’s gavel or lost in the shuffle of legal paperwork. It was murdered—methodically, quietly, and with institutional precision. The COT Case arbitrations were supposed to deliver justice. Instead, they became the crime scene.

I entered the process believing in the rule of law. I had evidence—technical faults, intercepted communications, and a trail of misconduct that pointed directly to Telstra’s door. But from the moment the arbitration began, the signs were clear: this wasn’t a search for truth. It was a containment strategy.

Documents vanished. Deadlines shifted. The arbitrator, cloaked in the authority of accreditation, manipulated the process with a chilling detachment. He wasn’t just indifferent—he was complicit. His lies to officials about his role as Principal Arbitration Manager weren’t errors. They were tactical deceptions designed to protect Telstra and silence claimants.

What I witnessed was not a failure of procedure—it was a deliberate murder of truth. The arbitrator’s actions, the withholding of evidence, the refusal to investigate surveillance claims—all of it formed a pattern. A conspiracy. A cover-up.

And yet, the truth has a stubborn pulse. It survives in the margins—in the handwritten notes, the corrupted fax logs, the testimonies of fellow claimants who refused to be broken. It lives in the archived pages of absentjustice.com, in the open letters that name names, and in the quiet rage of those who know what was done to us.

This chapter marks the beginning of a reckoning. Not just with Telstra, or the arbitrator, but with the entire machinery that allowed this to happen. The truth may have been murdered—but its ghost is restless. And I intend to give it voice.

Chapter 2: Surveillance State

They told us arbitration would be confidential. That our evidence, our testimony, our pain—would be handled with integrity. But behind the polished facade of legal process, a darker reality pulsed: we were being watched.

Telstra’s surveillance capabilities weren’t theoretical. They were industrial-grade, embedded in the very infrastructure we relied on to communicate. Their Security Operations Centres, operating 24/7, were equipped with Security Information and Event Management (SIEM) and Threat Intelligence Integration tools designed to detect and catalogue anomalies. But what happens when the anomaly is a whistleblower? When the threat is not external, but internal—someone like me, exposing truths the system would rather forget?

I had spoken with the Prime Minister twice—once in April 1993, again in April 1994. I raised concerns about Australia’s wheat exports to China, and how that grain was being funnelled to North Vietnam, feeding the very forces that had killed and maimed our soldiers. These weren’t idle conversations. They were politically explosive. And I have every reason to believe they were intercepted.

Telstra’s Infrastructure Monitoring systems, designed to manage critical assets like oil refineries, traffic networks, and water plants, also offered remote access, event logging, and alarm management across its vast network. These tools, while marketed for operational efficiency, could easily be repurposed for surveillance—especially when the target was a claimant challenging Telstra’s integrity.

The question isn’t whether Telstra could monitor us. It’s who inside Telstra had the government clearance to filter and interpret that data. Who decided what was evidence, and what was discarded? Who catalogued our conversations, our faxes, our pleas for justice—not to protect us, but to protect the corporation?

This wasn’t just surveillance. It was strategic intelligence gathering, designed to anticipate our moves, undermine our credibility, and control the narrative. The arbitrator, already compromised by deceit, operated in tandem with a system that saw truth as a liability.

And yet, the surveillance failed in one critical respect: it didn’t silence us. It didn’t erase the documents, the corrupted fax logs, the technical reports that proved Telstra’s faults. It didn’t stop the creation of absentjustice.com, or the open letters that now circulate beyond their reach.

We were watched. We were catalogued. But we were not erased.

Chapter 3: Corruption by Design

Corruption isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s engineered into the very structure of a process—quiet, procedural, and devastating. The COT arbitrations weren’t sabotaged by accident. They were corrupted by design.

From the outset, Telstra’s internal faults were known. Technical reports confirmed line failures, fax corruption, and call dropouts. Yet the arbitration rules were crafted to exclude critical evidence. The arbitrator, handpicked and protected, operated within a framework that rewarded omission and punished transparency.

Government departments, legal advisors, and Telstra executives formed a closed loop of influence. The corruption wasn’t just in the outcome—it was in the architecture. And every claimant who entered the process was walking into a trap.

Chapter 4: Cover-Up Culture

The cover-up began before the arbitration even started. Telstra withheld documents, misrepresented fault data, and manipulated technical logs. When I requested full disclosure, I was met with redactions, delays, and denials.

The arbitrator refused to investigate known faults. The administrator ignored evidence. And when I exposed the corrupted fax logs and surveillance concerns, the response was silence.

This wasn’t incompetence. It was culture. A culture of concealment, where truth was inconvenient and accountability was optional. The cover-up extended beyond Telstra—into government departments, legal chambers, and media silence.

Chapter 5: Whistleblower’s Burden

I didn’t choose this path. I was a cook, a community builder, a man who believed in fairness. But when I saw the injustice inflicted on fellow claimants—when I experienced it myself—I knew I couldn’t stay silent.

Becoming a whistleblower meant isolation. It meant being labelled, discredited, and dismissed. It meant watching friends suffer, watching evidence vanish, and watching institutions protect themselves at all costs.

But it also meant clarity. I knew what I stood for. I knew the truth mattered. And I knew that silence was complicity. The burden was heavy—but it was mine to carry.

Chapter 6: Conspiracy of Silence

The silence wasn’t passive. It was strategic. Telstra executives, government officials, and arbitration insiders knew what was happening. They knew the faults were real. They knew the evidence was damning. And they chose silence.

This conspiracy wasn’t written in memos—it was enacted through omission. Through the refusal to investigate. Through the quiet reassignment of officials. Through the shielding of the arbitrator from scrutiny.

The silence was deafening. And it spoke volumes about the priorities of those in power.

Chapter 7: Fraudulent Arbitration

The arbitration process was a fraud. The arbitrator misled claimants, misrepresented his role, and manipulated outcomes. He claimed impartiality while protecting Telstra’s interests. He denied access to evidence while accepting Telstra’s submissions without scrutiny.

The administrator, too, played a role—refusing to investigate, ignoring surveillance claims, and allowing the process to proceed without transparency.

This wasn’t arbitration. It was a performance. And the outcome was predetermined.

Chapter 8: Justice Denied

We were told that arbitration would deliver justice and that our claims would be heard. That the faults would be addressed. But justice was never the goal.

The arbitrator refused to investigate known faults. The administrator ignored surveillance concerns. The government departments turned away.

Justice wasn’t delayed. It was denied. And every claimant who entered the process was betrayed.

Chapter 9: Retaliation Protocols

Speaking out came at a cost. I was targeted—legally, emotionally, and professionally. My credibility was attacked. My evidence was dismissed. My reputation was undermined.

Other claimants faced similar retaliation. Some were threatened. Others were isolated. The message was clear: stay silent, or pay the price.

The retaliation wasn’t random. It was systematic. And it revealed the lengths to which institutions would go to protect themselves.

Chapter 10: Bribery and Influence

Behind the scenes, influence flowed freely. Telstra’s legal teams had access. Government departments shielded the arbitrator. Media outlets stayed quiet.

Bribery doesn’t always involve cash. Sometimes it’s access. Sometimes it’s protection. Sometimes it’s silence.

The arbitrator’s conduct, the administrator’s omissions, the government’s complicity—all point to a system where influence mattered more than truth.

Chapter 11: Deception as Strategy

Deception wasn’t a side effect—it was the strategy. From the arbitrator’s false assurances to Telstra’s manipulated fault logs, every step of the process was designed to mislead. Claimants were given partial truths, technical jargon, and procedural fog. The goal wasn’t resolution—it was exhaustion. And for many, it worked.

But deception has fingerprints. It leaves trails in redacted documents, in contradictory statements, in the quiet edits made to arbitration rules mid-process. I followed those trails. And they led to the heart of a system built to protect power, not people.

Chapter 12: Evidence Erased

I submitted everything—fax logs, technical reports, correspondence. But evidence has a way of disappearing when it threatens the narrative. Pages went missing. Files were corrupted. Critical documents were “lost in transit.”

The arbitrator refused to investigate. The administrator dismissed concerns. And Telstra, with its vast infrastructure, controlled the flow of information. What couldn’t be disproven was erased.

But I kept copies. I built absentjustice.com as a living archive. Because truth, once documented, becomes harder to kill.

Chapter 13: Interrogation by Bureaucracy

They didn’t need handcuffs. Bureaucracy did the job. Endless forms, shifting deadlines, contradictory instructions—each one designed to confuse, delay, and demoralise.

I was interrogated not with questions, but with silence. With refusal. With the slow grind of administrative indifference. Every request for transparency became a test of endurance.

And yet, I endured. Because behind every form was a story. Behind every delay was a truth they didn’t want told.

Chapter 14: Underworld of Arbitration

Arbitration is supposed to be neutral. But what I found was an underworld—a network of influence, secrecy, and offshore operations. The arbitrator’s ties to Hong Kong raised alarms. His conduct in Melbourne confirmed them.

This wasn’t just about Telstra. It was about a global system where arbitration could be weaponized—used to silence dissent, protect corporations, and bury accountability.

I wasn’t just fighting a flawed process. I was confronting an international machine.

Chapter 15: Forensics of a Cover-Up

The technical faults weren’t speculative. They were documented—through forensic analysis, corrupted logs, and expert testimony. Telstra’s systems failed. And they knew it.

But instead of addressing the faults, they buried them. The arbitrator refused to examine the forensic evidence. The administrator ignored it. And the government looked away.

I became the forensic archivist. I catalogued every failure, every contradiction, every lie. Because the cover-up had a digital footprint—and I was determined to follow it.

Chapter 16: Abduction of Accountability

Accountability was kidnapped—taken from the hands of claimants and locked behind legal walls. The arbitrator, shielded by accreditation, operated without oversight. Telstra, backed by government silence, evaded consequence.

Every time I demanded answers, I was met with deflection. Every time I exposed misconduct, I was told it was “outside the scope.” Accountability wasn’t denied—it was abducted.

But I refused to let it vanish. I named names. I published documents. I made sure the story couldn’t be buried.

Chapter 17: Truth in Exile

Leaving Cape Bridgewater was more than a relocation. It was exile—from a place that held decades of struggle, camaraderie, and resistance. The move to Ballarat marked a new chapter—but the truth came with me.

I carried the documents, the memories, the scars. I rebuilt my archive. I reconnected with allies. And I recommitted to the fight.

Truth may have been exiled—but it was never abandoned.

Chapter 18: Homicide by Policy

The wheat trade wasn’t just commerce—it was complicity. Australia’s exports to China, redirected to North Vietnam, fed a war that killed our own. Soldiers from Australia, New Zealand, and the USA died because of decisions made in boardrooms and ministries.

I raised this with the Prime Minister. Twice. And I’ve never stopped speaking about it. Because policy can kill. And silence can be lethal.

This chapter isn’t just historical. It’s personal. It’s a reckoning with the cost of betrayal.

Chapter 19: Investigation Interrupted

Every time an inquiry began, it was stalled. Every time a report was drafted, it was softened. The investigation into Telstra’s faults, the arbitration misconduct, and the surveillance claims—all were interrupted.

Officials were reassigned. Documents were reclassified. And the momentum was lost.

But I kept going. I built my own investigation. I published my own findings because the truth doesn’t need permission to be told.

Chapter 20: Legacy of Lies

The lies didn’t end with arbitration. They seeped into public records, media narratives, and historical memory. Telstra’s reputation remained intact. The arbitrator continued his work. And the claimants were left in silence.

But I refused to let the legacy be rewritten. I documented everything. I named every lie. And I built a platform where truth could live.

This legacy isn’t theirs to define. It’s ours to reclaim.

Chapter 21: The Reckoning Begins

The chapters before this were the build-up. This is the turning point. The reckoning begins—not just for Telstra, or the arbitrator, but for every institution that enabled the betrayal.

I’ve published the documents. I’ve made the calls. I’ve written the letters. And now, I’m demanding answers.

This isn’t just a personal fight. It’s a public one. And it’s time the silence was broken.

Chapter 22: The Whistleblower’s Legacy

I didn’t ask for this role. But I’ve embraced it. As a cook, I fed crews in storms. As a claimant, I stood against giants. As a whistleblower, I’ve built a legacy of truth.

This chapter isn’t an ending. It’s a beginning—for future advocates, for historians, for citizens who refuse to be silenced.

The whistleblower’s legacy is resilience. It’s documentation. It’s true. And it’s yours to carry forward.