Several weeks had passed since the meticulous analysis of the briefcase's contents began, alongside the data extracted from the Call Line Analysis System used in my earlier documentation from September 1992. It was during this process that the government started to grasp the significance of my communications with AUSTEL, as well as the calls initiated by AUSTEL's Amada Davis throughout that year. This thorough examination revealed a troubling pattern: Telstra appeared to be grappling with a systemic billing issue within its network. The documents associated with the briefcase provided crucial insights that illuminated the extent of the problem, underscoring the need for a closer examination of the integrity of their billing practices.

In September of 1992, Amanda Davis made several attempts to reach my camp, only to be met with the unsettling news that my number was not connected—twice. It was only on her third attempt that she managed to cut through the deception and finally get through to me. Afterwards, she confirmed the frustration of those initial failed calls, raising questions about the reliability of my camp's connection to Telstra’s network—a connection that felt increasingly suspect.

At the same time, my local plumber casually let slip an unsettling rumour about a clandestine gathering fueled by marijuana, where a Telstra technician revealed that my phone was under surveillance. This chilling claim found an echo in the Australian Federal Police transcripts dated September 26, 1994, which confirmed that my phone service had been ensnared in a web of electronic monitoring since at least 1992, shadowing me throughout the arbitration process.

The moment I learned that my private life was being scrutinised, I understood the peril of trusting anyone with sensitive information. I couldn’t risk discussing my next moves with Amanda Davis, knowing that I could be overheard. The air thickened with treachery, and I felt isolated in a sinister game played by unseen hands.

As I neared my settlement date on December 11, 1992, I sought out CCAS data covering the months from May to November. The findings were damning: Amanda Davis had been charged $0.25 for each of her failed calls, a paltry amount that belied the gravity of the situation. This evidence, combined with pages from the COT files, unveiled a dark conspiracy—Telstra was far more than a mere service provider; it was woven into a nefarious tapestry of corruption involving public servants, manipulative lawyers, and an unscrupulous arbitrator willing to sell their integrity for power, prestige, and the dubious honour of an Order of Australia. The stakes were not just high—they were treacherous, and I was just a pawn in their sinister game.

With a mix of determination and trepidation, I reached out to all four primary government regulators; my knowledge of who held jurisdiction over what was painfully limited. Each time, however, I was met with rejection; every office declined to investigate Telstra's reliance on the now-discredited testing conducted by Bell Canada International Inc. (BCI) at the Cape Bridgewater telephone exchange. Frustration weighed heavily on me, yet a sliver of hope appeared when the Commonwealth Ombudsman Office suggested I take matters into my own hands. They urged me to contact Bell Canada International directly to inform them of the inaccuracies in their testing, and to request written verification of this fact—a crucial piece of evidence that could bolster my claim for an award.

🔥 The Briefcase, the Tapes, and the Machinery of Deceit

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✍️ Chapter One: No Fault Found

Have you ever had reason to complain about your phone bill?

Has a friend insisted they called and you didn’t answer — even though you were right beside the phone?

Have prospective clients rebuked you for being unprofessional and not answering your phone, when it hasn’t rung for days and you’ve barely made any outgoing calls?

If you’ve experienced even one of these situations, you’ll understand why I sometimes feel I’ve lived through a nightmare. I endured all these problems — and more — for nearly ten years. I’m still seeking an equitable resolution.

⚓ The Beginning of the Saga

It began in late 1987 when my wife Faye and I bought a small accommodation business perched high above Cape Bridgewater, near Portland on Victoria’s southwest coast. The Cape Bridgewater Holiday Camp had previously operated as a school camp. We intended to transform it into a venue for social clubs, family groups, and schools.

The camp was a phone-dependent concern. Being in a remote area, the telephone was the primary means of access for city-based clients. Our mistake was failing to investigate the telephone system thoroughly before making the purchase. The business was connected to a phone exchange installed over 30 years earlier, designed for “low-call-rate” areas. This antiquated, unstaffed exchange had only eight lines and was never intended to handle the volume of calls from a growing population and seasonal holidaymakers.

In blissful ignorance, we sold our Melbourne home, and I took early retirement benefits to raise the funds for what we believed would be an exciting new venture.

🧭 A Life Built for Hospitality

I knew I could run this business. At fifteen, I went to sea as a steward on English passenger/cargo ships. In 1963, I jumped ship in Melbourne and worked as an assistant chef in some of the city's elite hotels. Two years later, at twenty, I joined the Australian Merchant Navy. By 1975, I’d served as a chef on many Australian and overseas cargo ships.

Faye and I were married in Melbourne in 1969. I freelanced in catering and worked on tugboats while studying hotel/motel management. I’d already managed one hotel/motel, pulling it out of receivership and preparing it for release. By 1987, at 44, I had gained the experience and confidence to transform a simple school camp into a successful, multifaceted concern.

📞 Marketing Meets Silence

I personally visited nearly 150 schools and shires to promote the camp. In February 1988, we printed and distributed 2,000 colour brochures. Then we waited for the phone to ring. It didn’t. Not even a modest 1% inquiry rate.

By April, we suspected the problem lay with the telephone service. People asked why we never answered our phone or suggested we install an answering machine — which we had. Even after replacing it, complaints continued. Callers reported extended periods of engaged signals.

Then came the dropouts. Calls would go dead mid-conversation. If the caller hadn’t given contact details and didn’t ring back, we lost the lead. Between April 1988 and January 1989, Telstra received nine complaints from me, along with several letters. The typical response to my 1100 call was a promise to check the line. Occasionally, a technician was sent. The verdict? “No fault found.” But the problems persisted.

🕵️‍♂️ Digging Deeper

Eventually, we learned the previous owner had suffered the same issues and had complained — also unsuccessfully. In 1988, I began building a case against Telstra and obtained documents through the Freedom of Information Act. One, titled Telstra Confidential: Difficult Network Faults — PCM Multiplex Report, included a subheading: “5.5 Portland — Cape Bridgewater Holiday Camp.” Telstra had been aware of the faults since early 1987.

Harry, our neighbour, sympathised. His daughter, calling from Colac, often struggled to get through. Fred Fairthorn, former owner of Tom the Cheap grocery chain, had similar problems. He said, “But what can you expect from Telstra when we’re in the bush?” I expected better. We were promised better.

📉 Decline and Doubt

We encouraged people to write, but the telephone culture was entrenched. People wanted immediate responses. As bookings dwindled, I began to question my decision to move to Cape Bridgewater—and to ask Faye to sell our family home to satisfy my ambitions. It wasn’t the fun I’d anticipated. I operated in a state of constant anger — a very unamusing Basil Fawlty.

We toured South Australia to promote the camp through the Wimmera region. Responses were few. Was the phone to blame? How could we be sure? The uncertainty itself was stressful.

📵 The Message That Killed My Business

Sometimes the culprit was obvious. On a shopping trip to Portland, I realised I’d left the meat order list at home. I called from a public phone box — only to hear a recorded message: “The number you have called is not connected.” I tried again. Same message. Telstra’s fault centre said they’d investigate. Later, I called again and got an engaged signal. I bought what I could remember and hoped for the best. When I got home, the phone hadn’t rung once.

Anyone who uses a phone has heard the recorded voice announcement (RVA):

“The number you have called is not connected or has been changed. Please check the number before calling again. You have not been charged for this call.”

This incorrect message was the one most callers reached when trying to contact the camp. Telstra never acknowledged it. But in 1994, among a trove of FOI documents, I found a Telstra internal memo stating:

“This message tends to give the caller the impression that the business they are calling has ceased trading, and they should try another trader.”

✍️ Chapter Two: No Fault Found 

No Fault Found, or an RVA fault, is a deceptive mechanism implemented by Telstra. This Recorded Voice Answering message informs unsuspecting callers that the number they are dialling is disconnected from Telstra’s service, when in reality, they are connected. This insidious misrepresentation has allowed Telstra to evade accountability for decades.

In a chilling memo, Telstra acknowledged the urgent need for “a very basic review of all our RVA messages and how they are applied.” The memo ominously suggested, “I am certain that as we begin to probe deeper, we will uncover a myriad of network scenarios where inappropriate RVAs are thriving.” This admission hints at a dark web of manipulation hiding in plain sight, obscuring the truth from countless customers.

It seems the “not connected” RVA triggered whenever the lines in or out of Cape Bridgewater were congested — which, given how few lines there were, was often.

For a newly established business like ours, this was catastrophic. Yet despite internal memos acknowledging serious faults, Telstra never admitted any existed. My continued complaints branded me a nuisance caller. This was rural Australia, and I was expected to tolerate poor service — not that Telstra ever admitted it was poor. Every technician’s verdict: “No fault found.”

📞 The Weight of Uncertainty

The frustration was immense. Was this just general rural service compounded by congestion on an antiquated exchange? Ours was the only accommodation business in Cape Bridgewater. We relied on the phone more than most. But if there was a specific fault, why wasn’t it being found?

By mid-1989, the business was in trouble. We began selling shares to cover operating costs — just 15 months after taking over the business. Instead of reducing the mortgage, we were selling assets. I felt like a failure. Neither of us could lift the other’s spirits.

📵 Silence in the City

I launched another round of city marketing. We both went. Maybe it was masochism that made me ring the camp’s answering machine via remote access — hoping to respond to messages promptly. All I got was the dreaded recording:

“The number you are calling is not connected or has been changed…”

On the way home, just outside Geelong, I tried again from a phone box. This time, the line was engaged. Maybe someone was leaving a message, I thought. Ever hopeful.

There were no messages. And no answers. How many calls had we lost while we were away? How many prospective clients gave up because they thought we’d ceased trading? Anger and frustration simmered just beneath the surface.

💔 Collapse

By late afternoon on 28 October 1989, the final thread of our twenty-year marriage snapped. I was already on prescribed medication for stress—PTSD, though no one called it that back then. The flashbacks had returned with a vengeance: August 1967, when I was arrested by the People’s Republic of China, accused of spying for the United States. They branded me “a US aggressor and a supporter of Chiang Kai-shek and the Chinese Nationalists.” I was twenty years old. That trauma had lain dormant for decades, buried beneath duty and distraction. But the collapse of my marriage unearthed it like a landmine.

The telephone problems were relentless, compounding the chaos. And beneath it all, a deeper fury simmered—one shared by many seamen who’d witnessed the betrayal firsthand. We knew that Australian wheat, sent to China under the guise of humanitarian aid, was being diverted to North Vietnam. It was feeding the very soldiers who were killing and maiming our mates from New Zealand, Australia, and the USA who were fighting in the jungle.

Margaret and Jack, dear friends from Melbourne, stepped in. Margaret came home with me to bail me out. The fun, however, had just begun.

🧹 Picking Up the Pieces

We returned to a disaster. Faye had left the night before, advised to seek a “safe house.” Doors were unlocked, meat from the deep freeze left out, and items had vanished. According to the camp diary, 70 students from Monivae Catholic College were due in two days — booked for five days and four nights.

Without Margaret, I would have been wiped out.

Shopping felt insurmountable. What to feed 70 students and staff? By the time I placed the order, it was Sunday evening. They were arriving the next day. Then the hot water service broke down.

The staff weren’t thrilled about cold showers. Even so, Monivae College returned two or three times a year for the next five years. Their support helped me keep trading.

So did Margaret. She carried me through that first week. Seeing that I was barely holding on, she suggested that Brother Greg, one of the Monivae teachers, come talk to me. It was inspired. We spoke late into the night — Margaret too — working through everything from childhood to the collapse of a twenty-year marriage.

📓 Logging the Madness

The phone problems continued. I began keeping a fault log — recording every complaint, name, contact detail, and the impact on the business and my wellbeing.One day, the kiosk phone was dead. The coin-operated gold phone in the dining room had a dial tone, so I dialled my office number. The response:

“The number you have called is not connected…”

I was charged for the call — the phone didn’t return my coins. Five minutes later, I tried again. This time, the office phone appeared engaged (it wasn’t), and the gold phone returned my coins.I used this testing routine often, registering every fault with Telstra. The situation was wearing me down. Why was this still happening? Could Telstra really be this incompetent? Or was something worse going on? Had I become too much of a nuisance?

But that was absurd. I’d been impeccably polite — even when I fantasised about sheer violence.

💸 Consequences and Losses

Now alone, I entered 1990, digging into my meagre reserves to pay staff. I was suffering what finance professionals call “consequential resultant loss.” Faye was no longer contributing unpaid labour, and I had to pay her a yearly dividend on her financial investment.

The future looked grim. Telstra hadn’t remedied the faults — or at least hadn’t made any difference. “No fault found” was wearing thin. I couldn’t stop thinking about how many customers I’d lost because they couldn’t reach me.

Legal vultures began circling. I couldn’t meet my financial agreement with Faye. Her solicitor demanded payment. I struggled to cover my own legal costs. My son’s school fees were overdue. To pay my debts, I sold the 22-seater school bus and bought a small utility vehicle.

❤️ A Lifeline

On the positive side, I met Karen, who lived in Warrnambool. Our relationship grew serious. When she learned I was about to wind up the business, she put her house up as security for a loan, giving me two years’ breathing space. She believed in me. She believed in the camp. She wanted to be a partner.

This was early 1991.

Things began to look up. A new exchange was scheduled for Cape Bridgewater later that year — promising to fix the congestion. Karen moved in, and we worked together with renewed energy.

In August came another breakthrough: someone at Telstra finally confirmed my phone problems were real. I felt immense relief. I asked for his name. He said only that he worked at the fault centre in Hamilton.

No names.

✍️ Chapter Three

Chapter Three is a turning point — emotionally, structurally, and politically. You’ve moved from personal devastation to collective resistance, and the formation of COT is both a rallying cry and a historical milestone. I’ve edited the chapter for clarity, pacing, and narrative tension, while preserving your voice and emotional cadence.

According to Telstra’s own file note:

“Alan Smith rang 15/8/91 re service 267 267. Incoming callers are receiving engaged signal when it’s not engaged … This has been a continuing problem and he is losing a lot of business. I said it appears from the fault history that the problem may be in the exchange and that the next RCM exchange 21/8 would solve these problems but that I would check this out with the techs. I also said we would have a look at the service now to try and get it working correctly until cutover”.

At last, someone at Telstra had given me something to hang on to.

When Karen sold her house, part of the proceeds went toward my legal fees and the debt to Faye. I paid Faye out, and Karen’s name was officially added to the business title. We counted the days to the installation of the new exchange.

📞 A Brief Victory

The new exchange arrived at the end of August 1991. It was a triumph — for about five minutes. It made no difference. The phone problems continued unabated, now worsened by the crushing disappointment that the war wasn’t over.

Complaints about recorded voice announcements increased. I kept reporting faults, which seemed to be getting worse. When I asked technicians where the faults could lie if not in the exchange, their response was maddening: “No fault found.” They refused to engage. I cursed the fact that I had no contact details for the one person who had acknowledged the faults. I wouldn’t see his file note until 1995.

🏚️ A Business in Decline

New bookings were rare. The camp needed painting and upgrades. It looked sad and bedraggled. Passersby weren’t interested in stopping. When we did have bookings, cash flow was tight. We managed, but it was a stressful experience.

Karen began to see her investment slipping away. The strain came to a head while we were organising a charity camp for underprivileged children.

❤️ Charity Amid Chaos

Despite financial hardship, I’d always sponsored stays for underprivileged groups. Food was donated by generous commercial outlets, and the cost to me was minimal — just electricity and gas.

In May 1992, we hosted a charity week for kids from Ballarat and Southwest Victoria, organised by Sister Maureen Burke, IBVM, Principal of Loreto College in Ballarat. Arrangements had to be made by phone — food, transport, special needs — but Sister Burke struggled to get through. Calls rang out or returned deadlines. After a week of failed attempts, she drove 3½ hours to finalise the plans in person.

Just as she arrived, Karen was on the phone with an angry man demanding information about a singles weekend. He was abusive. He couldn’t understand why we advertised a business but never answered the phone. Karen burst into tears. She’d reached her limit. I couldn’t console her.

When Sister Burke entered the office, I quietly removed myself. Later, she told me she thought it best if Karen left Cape Bridgewater. I felt numb. It was happening again.

💔 Another Goodbye

But this wasn’t like Faye. Karen and I talked. We agreed to separate, but I assured her she’d lose nothing for her generosity. I would buy her out. We were both relieved.

Karen rented a house in Portland. We remained good friends, but without her day-to-day help, I had to abandon my promotional tours.

Later, I sent Sister Burke an early draft of this book. She replied:

“Only I know from personal experience that your story is true, otherwise I would find it difficult to believe.”

⚠️ Casualties of Telstra

In July 1992, Karen called to say she’d heard of a Melbourne restaurant suffering the same phone issues. I felt comforted — I wasn’t alone.

Eventually, I reached Sheila Hawkins, proprietor of The Society restaurant in Bourke Street. We met in early August. It was a relief to speak with someone who understood.

Sheila was familiar with Ann Garms, who managed the Tivoli Theatre Restaurant in Brisbane. I called Ann and learned she was coming to Melbourne to lodge complaints with Austel, the telecommunications regulator. We arranged to meet with Sheila.

Ann mentioned another Brisbane business — a car parts company run by Maureen Gillen — also plagued by phone faults. Sheila had contacted Graham Schorer, who ran Golden Courier Service in North Melbourne despite a terrible phone service.

Our group gathered at Sheila’s restaurant, minus Maureen, who was unable to travel. It was Sheila who suggested we call ourselves COT — Casualties of Telstra. One of her last acts with the group was before withdrawing due to ill health.

🧨 “No Fault Found”

At the top of our shared grievances were those three maddening words: “No fault found.” It wasn’t just the faults — it was Telstra’s refusal to acknowledge them. They had a statutory duty to deliver service up to a recognised network standard. By failing to “find” faults, they avoided responsibility.

🏛️ The First Meeting

In October 1992, COT had its first official meeting with Telstra at the Ibis Hotel in Melbourne. We were united, optimistic small-business owners, seeking justice.

Telstra sent three executives. They treated us courteously. We felt heard. We asked for Austel to act as the “honest broker,” and Telstra agreed. They took our documentary evidence. We left believing resolution was near.

We had no idea what a long and arduous journey lay ahead.

✍️ Chapter Four: Guaranteed to Fail

After that initial meeting, there were several more with Telstra and Austel. Graham Schorer, based in the city, became the COT representative. Under pressure from Austel, Telstra began acknowledging faults — though they still refused to admit the scale we knew to be true. As it turned out, they knew it too.

📞 The Illusion of a Guarantee

In July 1992, I was compelled to request a guarantee from Telstra that my phone service met network standards. A bus company required such a guarantee before contracting to bring groups to the camp. I doubted Telstra could offer one, given their performance, but thought it might serve as leverage.

Eventually, two guarantees arrived — both too late to secure the contract:

“Whilst our recent tests indicate that your service is now performing to normal network standards, I am initiating a further detailed study…”

“We believe the quality of your service can be guaranteed… although it would be impossible to suggest there would never be a service problem…”

They were hollow assurances. And I now need to jump ahead — to material I didn’t have access to at the time, but which reveals what was really happening inside the exchange while my business was sinking.

📂 FOI Revelations

In 1994, all COT members entered arbitration with Telstra. Under the rules, Telstra was legally obligated to provide relevant documents via the Freedom of Information Act. Many requests took years to fulfil.

In mid-1994, I received documents referring to general congestion at Cape Bridgewater. One, dated 12 July 1991, titled PORTLAND – CAPE BRIDGEWATER PCM HBER, stated:

“When the ‘A’ direction of system 2 was initially tested, 11,000 errors per hour were measured. In the ‘B’ direction, approximately 216 errors per hour were measured. 72 errors per hour is the specified number allowable.”

This level of error was known as early as February 1990 — the very time my complaints were being stonewalled. And the new exchange didn’t fix it.

This level of error was, in fact, known at least as early as February 1990, the very time my complaints were being stonewalled. And nor was it acknowledged to me at the time of writing (July 1991).

And in the new exchange, the problems continued, as another document, titled ‘Portland — Cape Bridgewater — RCM System’ showed, referring to information logged in March 1993, long after Telstra had first reported these massive error rates:

The second page of this document explains why they ‘had no idea over what period of time these errors had accumulated’:

"The alarm system on all three RCM systems had not been programmed. This would have prevented any local alarms being extended back to Portland."

They didn’t know how long these errors had been accumulating because, from 18 August 1991, when the new exchange (RCM) was installed at Cape Bridgewater, the fault alarm system had been left unconnected. Since this was an unmanned exchange, no one could know when faults occurred — except, of course, us poor, defenceless customers.

We had no idea over what period these errors had accumulated. The second page explained why:

From August 18, 1991 — the day the new exchange was installed — the fault alarm system remained unconnected. Since the exchange was unmanned, no one knew when faults occurred except us.

So when Telstra wrote to me in September 1992, guaranteeing my service was “up to network standard,” they didn’t even know the alarm system wasn’t connected. Local technicians were oblivious to the call loss. What kind of investigation was this? A farcical one.

oOo

Below is a powerful and stirring declaration—one that resonates deeply with my mission and legacy. The transition from the twelve chapters to a broader spotlight on whistleblowers feels like a natural evolution of our absentjustice.com archive: from personal exposé to collective testimony. Here’s a refined version that preserves the COT Cases voice while enhancing clarity, rhythm, and emotional impact:

From Telstra-Corruption to Truth-Tellers: Honouring the Whistleblowers

The twelve chapters—from Telstra-Corruption-Freehill-Hollingdale & Page to The Promised Documents Never Arrived—form a vivid tapestry of injustice, resistance, and revelation. Though these compelling narratives will eventually be retired, their role in illuminating the tangled web of the COT saga remains vital. They have served as a beacon, drawing public attention to the systemic failures and institutional betrayals that demand accountability.

In their place, we turn our focus to a broader constellation of truth-tellers—whistleblowers whose courage defies silence. These extraordinary individuals risk their safety, careers, and peace of mind to expose the realities buried beneath bureaucratic stonewalls and corporate spin. Their stories are not footnotes to history; they are its pulse.

Governments across the globe must recognise the indispensable role whistleblowers play. Democracy does not flourish in darkness. It depends on the light cast by those who refuse to look away.

These trailblazers walk a perilous path through a world riddled with deceit. The weight of hidden truths is a burden they refuse to carry alone. For them, complicity is not an option. Driven by conscience, they confront injustice with unwavering resolve, determined to reveal what others would prefer remain hidden.

Their sacrifices—often made in isolation, under threat, and without recognition—are acts of profound moral clarity. Their stories compel us to listen, to act, and to honour their legacy. In doing so, we not only defend the principles of justice—we inspire others to rise.