He succeeds.
Like this columnist, Taylor has spent time in prison. However, Taylor did serious time, 38 years in all. I was merely a day-tripper by comparison. Yet, like Taylor, my early 20s have been lost in a haze of criminality and selective memory.
Taylor continued, however, in his chosen career. He graduated from petty crimes to organising bank robberies and became this country’s most proficient escapee.
Reading his book, it becomes clear that he is enormously proud of both his crimes and escapes. The highlight, in one respect, was the burning down of the Stratford Court House.
In June 1988 Taylor was facing some minor burglary charges. The night before the case was to be processed the court in Stratford burnt down. This, and the associated destruction of some original paperwork, gave Taylor a procedural advantage in the criminal case.
This building was erected in 1895. It had a Historic Places classification. It was restored at considerable cost. Whoever did this should be ashamed. Yet Taylor is so impressed with himself he cannot help but skite.
“Nobody has ever been convicted of lighting that fire. Later, Tireless Terry (a detective prosecuting Taylor) told reporters that a defendant wanting to get out of their case burned it to the ground. It’s anyone’s guess who he’s referring to.”
Taylor may believe readers will be impressed at the audacity of this action. Perhaps some were. I wasn’t. Unlike Taylor, I have never written about the events that brought me to serve 16 months in prison, save perhaps tangentially as a backdrop to a larger story or point.
There are a number of reasons for this, but one is I am not proud of them. I do not wish to relive or boast about what, looking back, was a grand adventure, but also a deeply shameful way to live.
People were hurt. Debts were accumulated that can never be settled. Spending time in prison does not square the ledger, as Taylor seems to think. Those affected by crime are rarely compensated by the thug who committed them being locked in a cage.
Maybe there is some solace in knowing that there were consequences, but that is not the same as being made whole. The damage done to our loved ones is incalculable, and the costs imposed upon the community ripples over generations.
The idea of seeking glory over and above the ill-gotten gains is abhorrent. Taylor sees himself as the centre of a Kipling adventure. A noble and loveable rogue. He isn’t. He comes across as unrepentant and a solipsist.
Yet it is wrong to dismiss the significance of his second act; a stunning run of largely self-represented litigation.
Unchecked, those with power will become accustomed to exercising it, and inevitability abuse their authority. When it comes to the state we must rely on the professionalism of those in office and when that fails; the courts.
Taylor took a number of cases, including a challenge to the ban of smoking in prison and the rights of prisoners to vote, as well as a half dozen less significant cases regarding his and other inmates’ rights and treatment.
In themselves, these will fade in relevance, but not the fact that they were taken. Reading his account, and trusting in its accuracy thanks to the involvement of Stuff journalist Kelly Dennett, it is clear that Corrections breached Taylor’s rights, violated the New Zealand Bill of Rights, and on occasion acted outside their legal authority.
His determined advocacy, and not always on his own account, forced the department to be held accountable. This is important, and not just for the limited number of cases but for making the wider point that those wielding authority can, and should, be held to a high standard when dealing with the marginalised and powerless.
Which brings me to what I believe is Taylor’s most important legacy; the perjury case against Roberto Conchie Harris.
Harris, as some readers may recall, was a secret Crown witness against David Tamihere, who was convicted of the murder of Swedish tourists Heidi Paakkonen and Sven Urban Hoglin in 1989.
Harris claimed, as did two others, that Tamihere confessed while he was on remand. At least in the case of Harris, it subsequently emerged, Tamihere did no such thing. Despite clear evidence that Harris had lied in court against a man facing a double murder charge, the police did nothing.
At this point, along comes Taylor, who picked up the case and successfully took a private criminal prosecution, and did so while incarcerated. Harris was sentenced to eight years and seven months for perjury. He died in prison last year.
The use of jailhouse informants is an illegitimate prosecution technique, and Taylor’s efforts demonstrated just how unreliable they are. I understand their use has largely been abandoned.
The failure of the police to confront their own failings in the Harris case was disgraceful and Taylor deserves recognition for securing this conviction and demonstrating how important it is that we retain the unique regime of private criminal prosecutions.
In a tyranny, Taylor would have been sent to a gulag and forgotten. He wasn’t. The willingness of those holding judicial warrants to set aside the wishes of the state where someone with the low standing of Taylor was able to cogently argue their case, is the most impressive aspect of Taylor’s story.
The judiciary, not Taylor, are the heroes of his book.
Taylor is a remarkable individual. Brilliant, flawed, and incredibly tenacious. He says, at the end of his book “I regret the s... I’ve done, and try to make up for it by bending over the other way, to try and right the scales.”
Maybe he believes this. I do not. Yet his legacy is important, even if he doesn’t really understand why."
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