Tasweekend: Vanessa Goodwin’s hard cell

Attorney-General Vanessa Goodwin wants to cut crime rates by putting her research into action.

Vanessa Goodwin

EDYTH Langham-Goodwin tended to frown upon her daughter Vanessa’s fascination with what she called the “dark side” of humanity.

The 77-year-old socialite and Liberal Party stalwart was uncertain where her only child’s seemingly unhealthy interest in crime would lead.

“Mum was worried about this interest in crime and the dark side, as she called it,” Vanessa Goodwin says. “She thought, ‘Why not go and be a corporate lawyer or something nice and safe’.”

Instead, Goodwin, 46, chose to delve deeper into the motives and causes of crime. Her intense desire to understand this element of human nature sprang from a teenage obsession with films such as The Godfather.

Vanessa Goodwin with her mother Edyth Langham, a Liberal party stalwart.

Although Langham-Goodwin hoped her daughter might one day follow her example and pursue a life in politics, she never imagined it would be Goodwin’s darker interests that would eventually land her the roles of Tasmanian Attorney-General, Minister for Corrections and Justice Minister.

Before entering the Tasmanian Parliament in 2009, Goodwin was a criminologist with Tasmania Police, researching and developing crime prevention tactics. She studied law at the University of Tasmania before securing a role as associate to then-Chief Justice Guy Green.

She was later accepted into the University of Cambridge and set off soon after the 1996 Port Arthur massacre, dedicating her master’s thesis to the study of mass murders.

“Like most people, I couldn’t really understand why it [Port Arthur] had happened and I wanted to know if there was any way it could have been prevented,” Goodwin says.

She returned to Tasmania where, as a softly spoken PhD candidate, she interviewed more than 50 maximum-security inmates at Risdon Prison about their burglary habits. Goodwin’s regular visits to Risdon in 2001 and 2002 taught her more about the causes of crime than she could ever have hoped to achieve through desktop research.

The male prisoners’ candid tales became the foundation for Goodwin’s much-cited research into Tasmanian crime families.

In 2008, her report on intergenerational crime revealed an entrenched culture of welfare dependency, alcohol abuse, domestic violence and child neglect within the families of some of the state’s most hardened criminals.

Corrections ministers generally want to “break the cycle” of crime. But never before has Tasmania had someone in Goodwin’s position who has examined at such close range the link between parents’ offending and their children’s potential future criminality.

During an interview at her home on Hobart’s Eastern Shore, Goodwin tells TasWeekend her Parliamentary ambition has always been to act on her research and implement her recommendations.

“The opportunity to influence policy is what I’ve been working to do all along,” she says.

It remains to be seen if she can convince her Cabinet colleagues to commit the generous funds needed to genuinely rehabilitate offenders and reduce the likelihood of their children entering into a life of crime.

As the Government’s leader in the Upper House, Goodwin may also have a tough time convincing her fellow Legislative Councillors support her planned overhaul of sentencing laws, which would do away with suspended sentences.

Supporters of Susan Neill-Fraser would be heartened by Goodwin’s response when asked about the convicted murderer. Although she gives no personal views on Neill-Fraser’s guilt or innocence, Goodwin says the imprisoned 60-year-old has the option of a Petition of Mercy, which would give her, as Attorney-General, the right to send the case back to court.

Goodwin also notes Neill-Fraser “could benefit” from new right to appeal legislation, introduced in Parliament last week.

It was the horrifying and bizarre case of Maurice Huish in the ’80s that got Goodwin, in her words, “hooked on criminology”. As a year 12 legal studies student at St Michael’s Collegiate, she and her classmates sat in on Huish’s murder trial.

In 1986, Huish, a 21-year-old University of Tasmania student, dressed up as a woman and stabbed his friend 29 times in an apparent case of jealousy.

“They were all involved in [fantasy role-playing game] Dungeons and Dragons, which added to the intrigue,” Goodwin says. “It took police a long time to track this guy down because the high heels threw them off. Just being a kid going to watch the case, I found it absolutely fascinating. That got me hooked on criminology.”

Goodwin toyed for a while with the idea of joining the police force but an officer talked her out of it, suggesting she instead pursue her interest in crime prevention in an academic capacity.

Sixty prisoners, including nine from the minimum-security Hayes prison farm, volunteered to be interviewed by Goodwin for her PhD thesis on repeat burglary victimisation. She was working for Tasmania Police at the time and wanted to learn why some households and businesses were targeted more than once.

She spent most of her visiting time over the year with 49 burglars classed as “experienced” as they had committed at least 10 break-ins.

Goodwin was amazed not only by the prisoners’ willingness to share their trade secrets but also their often-tragic life stories.

“They were incredibly frank,” Goodwin says. “It was the best insight you could possibly get in terms of trying to understand what would get them to the point where they were in prison and had been committing crimes. I tried to delve into what was motivating them, why they were there. It was a fascinating insight.

“Sometimes they’d disclose some pretty traumatic things … and I got the sense it was a bit therapeutic to be talking about it. I was limited in what I could do and sometimes came away from it feeling a bit overwhelmed. Perhaps if they’d told someone earlier they wouldn’t have ended up where they were, down a terrible pathway they deeply regret. There were times I felt quite sad the help hadn’t been made available early on,” she says.

The names, faces and stories have stuck in Goodwin’s mind over the years and occasionally she sees some of her interviewees around the place. She doubts many would remember the polite young university student who once alleviated the boredom of a prison day 14 years ago. Possibly few of them realise she is now the minister responsible for the prison.

Goodwin was amazed not only by the prisoners’ willingness to share their trade secrets but also their often-tragic life stories.

A small bookcase in Goodwin’s sunny home overlooking the River Derwent is filled with crime novels – James Patterson is a favourite author – and DVDs including the Underbelly TV series.

Her studies of Tasmania’s crime families revealed a reality far removed from the glamorised lives of Melbourne’s wealthy drug barons in Underbelly. In one family, 79 per cent of them had at least one conviction and in another only one daughter out of 11 children had no convictions. In a third, there was an average 20 offences for each of the 100 individuals.

Goodwin uncovered cases of children waiting in cars while their parents carried out burglaries. “In reality, it’s a highly dysfunctional life and pretty awful for the children,” she says. “The neglect involved, the chaotic life, children ending up having to live with other family members or a foster family because of the neglect. The fear also for some of the families if there are drug debts involved.”

The children of prisoners are clearly a chief concern for Goodwin. Risdon prison pastor Norm Reed believes her willingness to volunteer behind the scenes to support offenders and their families, is unique among ministers globally.

“When I travelled overseas [for a Churchill scholarship], visiting a number of prisons and churches, I mentioned our minister for prisons came in to help with the kids’ days at the prison and everyone said, ‘We’d never see our minister do that’,” Reed says.

Goodwin occasionally mans the counter at the Risdon breakfast program, which feeds local children before school three days a week. She is also involved in the local Rotary Club. “She’s often standing behind the counter serving hot dogs … and she’s not there being a parliamentarian trying to get interest from people, she often stands in the background,” Reed says.

In some ways, Goodwin seems an unlikely politician. “She is really smart and really nice. So what’s she doing in Parliament?” a media colleague recently remarked. There are plenty of lawyers in parliaments across Australia but Goodwin’s criminology background is unique – although former police officers Ivan Dean and Tony Mulder also transitioned into politics.

However, in many ways, Goodwin was always destined for a life in public office. Her mother was heavily involved in the Liberal Party and ran as a candidate a couple of times. When Goodwin studied law at university, now-Premier Will Hodgman and fellow Liberal MP Elise Archer were classmates. “I’ve grown up with the Liberal Party, it’s been like an extended family,” says Goodwin, recalling raucous parties, election night functions and fundraisers at her house.

“I remember travelling around on the campaign trail when Mum was a candidate. When I was about 15 it was apparently considered a good idea to recruit me and a young family friend to wear a sandwich board promoting my mother in the vicinity of Eastlands. Not the thing a teenage girl would really want to be doing.”

Disappointingly, Goodwin fails to dish any dirt on Hodgman or Archer from her uni days. When pressed, all she can offer is a fairly staid anecdote about a male member of the judiciary (she refuses to name him) who taught Goodwin’s legal prac’ course and encouraged the students to drink green chartreuse. “I don’t know if you’ve tried it, it’s very strong. I think we were doing a test to show what you would blow in a breathalyser and this was one of the drinks we tried.” If the story has a punchline, Goodwin declines to tell it.

Goodwin was caught drink-driving shortly before her election in 2009, with a reading only just over the limit. She lost her licence for three months. “That was terrible,” she says. “I’m still a bit shocked it only took two glasses of wine and I’m extra cautious now.”

Goodwin grew up at Rose Bay and later Acton, where the family ran a boarding kennel and cattery, spending much of her free time swimming at Seven Mile Beach and riding at various pony club events around the state. She still loves animals and shares her home with Sophie, an 11-year-old blue heeler who sits lovingly at her feet throughout the interview, and Minnie, a less-sociable 13-year-old cat.

Goodwin’s late father Grant was not a Liberal Party member but “tolerated” all the campaigning and events and also once ran as an independent. He was a partner in Bay Hire at Sandy Bay with Goodwin’s godfather Geoff Stump. Grant, who died in 2013, was a major role model and taught Goodwin everything from mathematics to how to handle a power drill, which came in handy during her campaigning days when she had posters to display.

But there were aspects of her father’s personality Goodwin struggled to understand while growing up.

“I remember I won the school maths prize and Dad had helped me with my maths but he didn’t want to come to speech night,” she says.

“He was diagnosed quite late in life with bipolar disorder when he had quite a lengthy psychotic episode and was admitted to the Hobart Clinic. Post-diagnosis and treatment, he realised he had experienced symptoms most of his life dating right back to when he was in school, but they had not been recognised.”

Her mother has also had a long battle with illness, having been diagnosed with breast cancer about 20 years ago. She is now fighting secondary cancers and has had two brain tumours removed. “She is always upbeat and determined to keep fighting it,” Goodwin says.

One of her mother’s chief complaints over the years about the political party she loves so dearly has been the relative lack of female candidates. “It’s getting better,” Goodwin says. “When I was elected there was only one woman in the PLP [Parliamentary Liberal Party], Sue Napier, so I made two. Now we’ve got quite a few female MPs in the PLP but there’s always room for more to even that up.”

Goodwin believes the gender discrepancy comes down to the impact of what is a 24-hour, seven-day-a-week job on politicians’ home lives rather than sexism.

“It can be tough on family life so it’s not going to be the life for everybody,” she says. “It’s not a straightforward matter of just saying, ‘We want more women’, and being able to do that immediately.”

Not having children has not been deliberate for Goodwin, who is single. Nor is it something she particularly regrets.

“I don’t know whether I’d call it a sacrifice,” she says. “I think it’s just the way life panned out. Going off to study at Cambridge and doing the PhD, that becomes all-consuming and then getting into politics. It hasn’t been a conscious choice, it’s just the way life has unfolded.”

Vanessa Goodwin relaxes at her home on the Eastern Shore with her blue heeler, Sophie.

Since last year’s election, Goodwin has been tasked with selling some of the Hodgman Government’s most controversial policies, including toughened anti-protest legislation and a failed bid to change defamation laws. In a strange turn of events, she has also been responsible for justifying the Government’s decision to scrap the much-lauded U-Turn young offender program she helped establish more than a decade ago.

Another criticised move within her portfolio is the 20 per cent cut to the budget of Tasmania’s corruption watchdog the Integrity Commission, a move strikingly at odds with Goodwin’s maiden speech to Parliament, in 2009, in which she said the commission was vital in restoring trust in government. Yet despite Goodwin’s apparent backflips (u-turns, perhaps?), she refutes the suggestion her values and ideals have been compromised as she toes the party line, saying she has simply adjusted to changing circumstances and the greater access to information she enjoys as a minister.

But when Murray Kellam stepped down as Integrity Commission chief last month, he accused the Government of being complacent in tackling corruption in the public sector. He criticised the budget cut and the Government’s failure to introduce an offence of misconduct in public office. Goodwin says the Government has not ruled out introducing such an offence, but will wait for the outcome of an independent review next year. She will also wait for the review to decide whether to strip the commission of its investigative powers.

“I understand now how [the commission] is impacting on agencies and that really needs to be ironed out,” Goodwin says, referring to the length, expense and impact on employees of investigations.

In February, in a move hailed as a major win for free speech, Goodwin scrapped a plan to give big companies the right to sue for defamation. She says the law change would have protected companies such as Tasmanian timber veneer producer Ta Ann from “misleading campaigns”.

The plan copped widespread criticism for potentially allowing corporations to shut down public scrutiny, threatening the rights of business journalists in particular and making Tasmania “a haven for libel tourists”.

A common, possibly optimistic, view among reporters was Goodwin was secretly relieved when she had to concede defeat and scrap the plan. However, she reveals she wholeheartedly endorsed the law change – and in fact still does, although she says “it will not be revisited”.

“It is a very strange situation where there’s this arbitrary line, so if you’re in a business that has more than nine employees you’re not able to sue for defamation but if you’ve got less than nine you are. That’s not even consistent with the definition of small business,” Goodwin says. “It really did deserve some examination.”

Until a few months ago a mechanic workshop in Moonah was the setting for a groundbreaking crime-prevention program, which has since been copied in other states. Goodwin was the original Tasmania Police program manager for the U-Turn project, which taught teenage car thieves how to build, repair and maintain cars, which were donated to theft victims.

Goodwin cut the program’s funding after a police review of U-Turn raised concerns about young offenders mixing with older, more serious criminals.

Mission Australia’s Tasmanian director Noel Mundy rejects the findings of the review.

“The report just focused on three, possibly four courses over a given period where we’d run more than 40 courses,” he says. “There were two young people in particular who had a number of offences after they’d left U-Turn so it really spiked the overall results.

“We would be more than happy to tweak the program but we didn’t get the chance.”

Goodwin shows little emotion over having to pull the pin on something she was so involved in setting up. “While I deeply regretted having to close the program down, I didn’t feel I had an option in the end because it was perhaps in some cases doing more harm than good,” she says. “You just can’t let that continue.”

She is replacing the program for 15 to 20-year-olds with a new model aimed at an older demographic. The Back on Track program will address the “personal, social and development” needs of young adult offenders statewide. “This 18-to-25 age group is a bit of a gap in delivery at the moment,” she says.

Goodwin says the successful tenderer will be announced soon but Mundy is unaware of anyone who has applied, saying the $500,000-a-year budget is not enough to cover the 20 clients expected to be engaged at any one time. “And I know a fair few people in the sector,” he says.

Another organisation in Goodwin’s electorate of Pembroke, Training Opportunities and Options for Learning, went into voluntary administration this month despite a promised $980,000 in State Government funding over four years. The organisation had missed out on Federal funds and key State Government contracts.

“Now with the closure of TOOL as well, there are just not many options for young people for that early intervention,” Mundy says.

The State money that was supposed to flow to TOOL has been quarantined for youth training initiatives. Despite the setbacks, Goodwin is happy with the progress she is making, especially if she can succeed in getting the Government’s plan to phase out suspended sentences through Parliament. But again, money is going to be key to the success of this policy.

Seen as a “soft option”, suspended sentences are unpopular and little understood in the community. But they will not be phased out unless a raft of new rehabilitative and community-based penalty options are made available to judges and magistrates, all of which will be much more expensive than simple suspended sentences.

Options on the table include home detention, possibly with electronic bracelets, court-mandated rehab for alcoholics and an extension of existing drug treatment orders to cover more serious crimes. The Tasmanian Sentencing Advisory Council is working on a cost estimate for the changes.

Goodwin is positive the policy will be funded. “We’ve stated we’re committed to the policy and they [Government MPs] share my concern that we really want to be preventing crime and reducing the overall cost to the community,” she says.

At the church next to Risdon Prison, Pastor Norm Reed believes the proposed new sentencing options could make a real impact on recidivism rates.

“If it’s done really well it’s going to have some fantastic results. How you do that in a limited economy and with a shortfall in budget, I don’t know,” Reed says. “Therein lies the difficult question.”

Goodwin says every politician “wants to leave a legacy” and her main reason for being in Parliament is to cut crime by addressing its causes. And she knows more than most how to achieve such a feat.

But as Mundy says, it all depends “how loud her voice is” at the Cabinet table.