Dean Laidley will attend a 28-day rehab after being bailed from prison
Allegations about Dean Laidley’s “out-of-character” behaviour were aired during his bail application yesterday, but the former AFL great was released from prison to take what his lawyer described as a much-needed “time out” in rehab.
Police & Courts
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About 10 minutes into his bail application, Dean Laidley lets his face mask slip.
As it hangs from one ear, his face nursed by a hand, Laidley grinds his teeth and clenches his jaw.
‘The Bible’, as Laidley was nicknamed as a young footballer, no longer seems the hardest of reads.
Laidley gets what he seeks. Yet his bail approval from Magistrate Kieran Gilligan hardly sets him free.
Laidley’s exit from prison custody, after the controversy of his arrest and the photos subsequently circulated, is loaded with terms and conditions. They are aimed not at punishing him, but shepherding him towards a healthier approach.
In getting conditional bail, Laidley gets a shot at redemption.
He is taking a much-needed “time out”, as his defence barrister Philip Dunn QC puts it. He is going to rehab. It is his chance to undo years of drug use, and an opportunity to address deep-seated issues, such as gender dysphoria.
His life over the next 28 days will be strictly regimented.
He will wake before 7am and turn his lights out before 11pm. He won’t have a phone or computer. He will be drug-tested at least twice a week, complete with the indignity of having to urinate while someone watches.
Laidley’s phone calls will be supervised. He cannot leave the facility; if he tries, he will become a wanted man.
How did it come to this? How does the prospect of having being supervised in every exchange and action loom as a much-needed second chance?
The court heard about Laidley’s “out-of character” issues. These related to stalking charges against him.
Details, many in dispute, described extreme choices that fluctuated between threats and flattery. Laidley was cast as a dreadfully unhappy soul who recently sent a photo of himself in a suicidal pose.
His stalking accuser, a woman whom he first met on Tinder, feared for Laidley’s mental health before his behaviour was said to escalate in recent weeks.
She did not want him criminally charged on April 13, after evidence of persistent calls and texts. By the start of May, her position had changed.
Even in police-speak — “acting in a way that could reasonably be expected to cause physical and mental harm to the victim” — the allegations against Laidley ooze a hidden tawdriness that no public figure would care to be linked with.
A list of tendered character references featured kind words from AFL coaches and players considered to be the game’s wiser heads. They were said to describe the person Laidley once was, a driven personality who set goals.
Rehab, according to Dunn, could allow Laidley to rediscover the person he once was.
Dunn spoke of a bubble since Laidley’s teenage days, when he represented Western Australia in underage sport.
Laidley went to West Coast as a player, then North Melbourne, where he became a premiership player and long-time coach.
He was insulated by the people and structures of elite sport for the next 30 years. When they dissolved, he faltered.
If he embraces the conditions of his release, Laidley will be reassessed in four weeks. By then, Laidley may be allowed to move to a lower-security facility in Essendon, even take small trips alone if he has sufficiently impressed his clinical team.
His court-appointed journey sounds tougher than the tribulations, on and off the field, that Laidley confronted in his public sporting life.
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