Damian Marrett - Undercover

For six years, my life was one big lie. Actually it wasnt just the one lie; there were hundreds and hundreds of them. I told them for a living. They tumbled effortlessly out of my mouth, and when I was at the top of my game, no one, least of all me, gave them a second consideration as they manipulated their intended targets.

Of course, over those six years I had a form slump or two. There were times when I questioned the nature of the work, and my role in it. For instance: what other field rewards bullshit artists? Used car sales, politics and law, just off the top of my head. I was all too aware that I wasnt travelling in the best company.

Paraphrased, the job description of a Victoria Police undercover operative reads rather simply: ingratiate, establish trust, dump person in shit. Sometimes, especially on lengthy jobs, Id find myself ingratiating a bit too much, and Id end up feeling guilty when the shit-dumping was on the agenda. The psychologists used to call this sort of behaviour Stockholm syndrome. I just thought it was second nature.

Yet despite all the guilt (and the lies), I managed to play a role in over fifty operations, often working up to three or four jobs at the one time. Some operations were intricate and involved, played out on a grand scale. Others were so small that, when I read through my old police diary, I have trouble recalling any of the details.

But theres one thing I do know about every last one of those jobs: I was just being me.

Some people think you need a degree from NIDA to work as an undercover cop. But from my experience, acting is just thatacting. I found that undercover work was just a matter of tapping into different facets of my personality when required. For the most part, good undercovers will pretty much be themselves, revealing only whats necessary to get the job done. Thats not denying that your primary aim is to manipulate a target, but everyone has a capacity to manipulate. Kids do it every day. If you wanted a bike for your birthday, you had to take your parents along for the ride as well.

Undercover work was never something I actively pursued. One minute I was a young cop in uniform, the next I was an undercover Drug Squad detective. It all happened so rapidly that I barely had time to comprehend what I was doing, or any of the consequences. Looking back, Im just happy that I managed to bullshit my way through criminal circles without making a complete fool of myself.

And even though my expectations werent particularly lofty, Im proud of one thing: I was always eager to learn. Right from the outset, I wanted to be the best undercover operative I could possibly be.

A good undercover has to process information in the most pressured of circumstances and environments. On top of that, you have to be able to act on three or four things at the same time. A drug dealer might say he wants to sell me some smack outside a video store on Smith Street, Collingwood. Id be taking this in, but my mind would be racing: Why does he want to do it there? If I were a crook, would I want to do it there? Will it lock me in to doing further deals at that same location? Is the area surveillance-friendly? Will the surveillance cameras capture my best side?

Once a relationship with a target was established, part of my job was to pick up on things that he would want from mequalities he admired or expected from a fellow crook. When those signals presented themselves, Id just give him what he wanted.

Maybe a target had hired me as a hitman. Some personality traits are expected when you pose as a gun for hire. Well, I found there wasnt any great demand for warm and cuddly hitmen. So Id sometimes put on a show, if that meant keeping the operations objectives on the right track. It could be as simple as a no-nonsense stare after the target (the bloke we were hoping to arrest at the end of the whole job) said something I didnt like.

Although one time I posed as a hired killer with a thing for flowers. It just seemed right at the time, and I didnt mind screwing with the stereotype.

You cant be doing this job forever, the target said to me one day.

Ill be right. Ive been saving up.

What are you gonna do then?

Open a florists shop.

Flowers? he said, laughing at the thought of a hitman gift-wrapping daffodils for little old ladies.

I like flowers, I said, fixing him with a set of cold eyes that looked like they were already reaching for a gun. Whats wrong with liking flowers?

In other situations the targets might have preferred to do business with a clever bloke. I tried my best on that score. I remember once doing the sums on a piece of paper for a brain-dead smack dealer: How to Deal Drugs 101 by Damian Marrett.

Or sometimes I had to act a bit vague to get people to open up. By that I mean Id play dumb if I was trying to glean information. And besides, when I played dumb, I sometimes got more on a listening device anyway. Okay, can you run that deal by me again? From the beginning. Louder.

Like most people, I often wonder what sort of person I would be now if my life had taken a different direction. At seventeen, I was convinced that I would be a bookmaker. My father was an accountant, and I had toyed with that idea as well, but the lure of the betting ring excited me far more than crunching numbers in an office. Id also considered joining the police force but, to be honest, I hadnt given it too much serious thought.

In 1985 I had a part-time job running around country tracks, laying off bets for my bookie boss. It was good fun. I was happy, and it seemed like the bookies life was for me. One drunken night, however, fate intervened on my behalf.

After well and truly tying one on at a party, I stupidly jumped in my old Ford XY station wagon. Hard to justify now, but drink-driving was almost a rite of passage back in the eighties.

Hurtling along Banyule Road in Melbournes northeast, I lost control on the first bend I negotiated, rolling the car in the process. It finally finished up on its roof, a total write-off. Somehow I got out of the wreck in one piece, and stumbled back up the road to the party. A quick drink to calm the nerves and I was tucked safely into bed.

The next morning I woke up with a hangover that refused to go away. A friend drove me to the car. It wasnt there. By the time I made it home the police had already put in an appearance, checking in with my mum and dad. Theyd found the car; now they were looking for me. So, after copping an earful from the parents, I was off to Heidelberg police station for another grilling.

When I got there, this old-school copper went to town on me. You will be charged, you will lose your licence. I was quietly taking this all in when I caught sight of a poster on the wall. A recruitment poster. It was a long shot, but I figured it was worth a shot.

Will this affect my chances of joining up? I asked as innocently as I could without coming across as a suck.

What? I dont think he expected my query.

Will I still get accepted for the academy?

Dont tell me you want to join up, he said incredulously.

I dropped the bottom lip in a half-quiver and put on a long, sad face. The one thats got bullshit written all over it in invisible ink. Well yeah, its been kind of a dream of mine for years.

He studied me for a couple of seconds to check if I was fair dinkum. I kept up the faade for maximum effect. Mate, we can make these charges go away, dont worry about that, he finally shot back at me.

And that was that. I was a free manuntil the academy.

The idea of becoming a copper kind of grew on me again. Well, I guess under the circumstances it had to. Three months later, Id passed the initial medical and psychology tests. I was called in and questioned on the psych component though.