When Dean was locked up, he told Felicia to move on with her life

Miner Dean O’Donnell, 44, spent eight years in jail for drug-trafficking after a raid on his home in Hervey Bay. When he was released in February, his ex-fiancée, Miss Australia winner and counsellor Felicia Djamirze, 36, was waiting.

Felicia Djamirze and Dean O’Donnell. “It broke my heart to know she’d been hurt,” says O’Donnell. “I felt completely helpless.” Credit: Paul Harris

Dean: I started dealing weed when I was 13. Dad was in prison, and my mum and her new partner were heroin addicts. Six kids. Dealing was the fastest way to make money.

Felicia and I were friends for a year before we became lovers [in 2014]. When you’re friends, you find out what a person’s really like. It costs you nothing to judge a person when they’re your friend; it costs you your heart once you’re lovers.

I never expected to be raided; I was naive. The police launched a couple of hand grenades through our bedroom window as we slept. One of them blew up in Felicia’s face. I try not to think about it; I don’t want to carry any anger.

After the raid, I was locked up straight away. I knew she’d been badly injured, but I didn’t know the full extent. She nearly lost her right hand and her eye and she had to move back in with her mum. It broke my heart to know she’d been hurt. I felt completely helpless.

‘It was agony. How do you ask someone who’s already waited four years to wait another six?’

Dean O’Donnell

I was on remand for almost four years, then I got the “brick” [10 years] in 2019. I told Felicia to move on with her life. It was agony. How do you ask someone who’s already waited four years to wait another six? You can’t. Especially when she’s young, beautiful and possibly wants to have kids. You can’t take that away from somebody.

My heart broke so many times when I was inside; I thought I was never gonna see her again. It’s terrible living inside a maximum-security prison. The food is awful and you become malnourished, but it was the heartbreak that did it; even the doctors said so. I ended up with stage-two cancer. I had chemo, radiation and surgery and I’m in remission now.

I never told her about the cancer; I wanted to fight it on my own. She found out after I got out and it went down like razor blades. I’d been out a few days and the oncologist called me. I was driving – she heard the whole conversation on speaker – and she was furious. But how do you tell somebody who’s loved you so much and waited so long that you’ve got cancer?

The first day I was allowed to see her after I was released, I was so joyous. We met in a hotel foyer in Brisbane. It was supposed to be somewhere quiet, but [the rock band] Blink182 was staying there and the moment we saw each other, the band walked through the foyer and all these groupies started screaming. She looked as stunning as the first day I saw her, the most glamorous woman I’d ever seen. She looked at me like I wasn’t real.

Felicia’s the only woman on earth for me. We just got re-engaged and we’re getting married next year. We do ordinary things, sitting on the couch eating popcorn or cooking. When I met her, I ate out every night, but I’ve done a Certificate III in cookery and can cook anything now. My specialty’s king prawns, marinated and wok-fried, served with rice and fresh greens.

Dean O’Donnell and Felicia Djamirze before the raid, circa 2015.Credit: Courtesy of Felicia Djamirze

Felicia: I came into my relationship with Dean in 2014 with a very low level of tolerance for any kind of bullshit. Fortunately, he’s always been kind, respectful and generous – and we’re just always laughing.

Dean and I were asleep when we got raided. I knew Dean was dealing; I’ve been around crime and cops my whole life. What I didn’t expect was the no-knock raid; had they knocked, I’d have opened the door. The first grenade exploded in my face, near my hand, a second one blew out my elbow. I spent two months in hospital. I was charged with trafficking but pleaded guilty to the lesser charge of supply and received a three-year suspended sentence.

I don’t blame Dean for what happened; I knew the risks. Nobody could have anticipated that the police would use military-grade hand grenades. I sued them afterwards and we settled out of court.

‘I made an application to the prison to do a video call. It was really good to see him again; it was like no time had passed.’

Felicia Djamirze

I visited Dean while he was on remand [in Wacol, Queensland]. He was behind glass, of course, which was difficult; I just wanted to give him a hug. After his sentencing, we broke off our engagement. It had to happen. It’s impossible to maintain a romantic relationship when somebody’s in jail for 10 years. I moved back in with my mum in Blacktown, because I needed her care.

One day, Dean and I had a fight and didn’t speak for a few years; I had relationships with other men. The love was always there, though: the issue was that he wasn’t physically there with me to build a life together. I don’t regret those relationships; I’m with the right person now.

We reconnected about two years before he was released. I was watching a documentary on the prison system and I just suddenly felt so deeply for him. I made an application to the prison to do a video call. It was really good to see him again; it was like no time had passed.

When he was released, we met for a drink. I remember he had a sip of this cocktail and his face screwed up like a baby’s when it’s tasted something sour. Then we went to a spa and ate lobster poolside, like the old days. I knew things were going to be OK.

When I found out about the cancer, I was really f---ing pissed off. I thought, “After all that we’ve been through, and you’re finally out and we’re able to move forward with our lives and you’re sick? Universe, please, enough.”

The physical and psychological toll of incarceration is immeasurable. I helped Dean enrol in education, get a job, buy clothes, a car and a phone and the 100 million other things you need when you haven’t had any belongings for eight years. He’s worked so hard to reintegrate; I’ve never been so proud of him.

When you’ve been apart, you miss all the little things, the things that are free: hanging out together at home with our three Frenchies, Bugatti, Michka and Gucci, and teacup chihuahua Gigi. Dean’s drug-dealing days are over, 100 per cent. We’ve lost too much. If he were ever to go back inside, it would be a death sentence. Nothing’s worth your freedom.

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