Gangster (5 page)

As was usual in Gilligan’s criminal career, he was not brought to court for his role in this serious crime but instead went down for receiving stolen tools worth a mere IR£3,000.

The goods had been stolen from Bolger’s Hardware and Builders Providers in Kilcannon, Enniscorthy, County Wexford, months earlier. The warehouse gang had been busy and had cleared out the family business. The goods were recovered days later by the gardaí, following a surveillance operation that resulted in Gilligan’s arrest.

Gilligan was charged before the Special Criminal Court where Judge Robert Barr described him as being ‘involved in serious crime for many years’. Gilligan, whose address was given as Corduff Avenue, Blanchardstown, Dublin, was found guilty of receiving assorted hardware items worth IR£3,000 between 26 and 28 January but was cleared of the theft of IR£15,000 worth of stolen goods. The court was told that Gilligan had been arrested after gardaí had staked out a lorry parked on the Ballymount Road in Dublin. The lorry contained the proceeds of the Wexford robbery, and Gilligan and three others were seen removing the goods from it in two vans.

When Gilligan was convicted, Detective Sergeant Felix McKenna told the court that Gilligan had 12 previous convictions and was the leader of the gang. Barr sentenced Gilligan to four years. Although the conviction was a huge success, it would have unforeseen consequences. No one standing in the courtroom that day could have predicted that Gilligan was about to undergo a metamorphosis, transforming himself from a street wise thief into a career criminal. This transformation occurred in the maximum-security wing of Portlaoise Prison over the next three years, with unimaginable consequences for the system that put him there.

Chapter 5

Portlaoise

‘He was a natural-born networker.’

BRIAN KENNA, FORMER OFFICER COMMANDING OF THE PROVISIONAL IRA PRISONERS HELD IN PORTLAOISE PRISON, TALKING ABOUT GILLIGAN

The video footage shows a small man smiling at the camera, shaking hands with some of Ireland’s most infamous gangsters. He is cordial and is greeted with respect; the type shown by sons to their fathers. He looks nervous in front of the camera, ill at ease about being filmed, but manages to continue smiling as if he has not a care in the world. John Gilligan was networking. He shouts at Dessie O’Hare. The INLA gunman, forever known as the Border Fox, is walking through the frame looking solemn.

‘Dessie . . . Dessie . . . Dessie . . . come here.’

O’Hare ignores him, stares straight ahead, and walks away. Gilligan runs towards him and embraces him whilst cajoling him into smiling at the camera. Then he’s off, shaking hands with other prisoners, patting them on the back, congratulating some on playing well whilst commiserating with others. He is everyone’s friend.

The inmates of Portlaoise Prison had just organised an inter-prison soccer tournament, the final of which had been filmed on video for posterity. Below the barbed wire and watchtowers, soccer teams drawn from the prison population competed against each other to secure a place in the cup final. Because he was not a good footballer, Gilligan was nominated to provide a running commentary on the qualifying matches as they were filmed. That his vocabulary was limited and his words were spoken in guttural tones that seemed to melt into one another didn’t dissuade his appointment. Some of his commentary when later played was impossible to decipher. Oddly, at times when O’Hare was playing he spoke with clarity—although he repeated himself constantly.

‘The Border Fox has the ball. Good kick by Dessie O’Hare, the Fox to Hippo Ward . . . Nice pass to Larry Dunne . . . Larry Dunne. Good man, Larry.’

It was late in the summer of 1991, and Gilligan had just begun serving his sentence in Portlaoise Prison, yet he was the centre of attention—greeted like a patriarchal figure. In the grey confines of the prison, Gilligan had the power without the throne. He slept in the same type of cell as the other prisoners, ate the same food, awoke at the same time and was told when to go to bed. The only thing that set him apart was his ability to network. It was here that he created a coterie of trusted sidekicks who would later give him the muscle to become a major player in the world of crime. Far from rehabilitating himself for society, Gilligan metamorphosed from a thief into a gangster.

Gilligan arrived in Portlaoise Prison courtesy of the Special Criminal Court on 7 November 1990. The prison itself was built in 1850 and lies in the centre of Portlaoise town in County Laois. The jail is divided into two wings—D Block and E Block, each wing four storeys in height. D Block holds delinquents jailed for car theft and other such misdemeanours. E Block is a prison within a prison and is partly reserved for those the system deems a serious threat to the security of the State.

The ground floor of E Block is called E1 and is home to a select group of criminals, some of whom the Department of Justice regards as being involved in organised crime. The second floor is called E2. The Irish National Liberation Army (INLA) used to share this floor with the Provisional IRA volunteers whose ranks also accounted for the cells on E3 and E4. Gilligan lived on E1, and it was here that he evolved in criminal terms.

It is said that Gilligan could always make people feel comfortable. He might smile at them, give them space when required, talk to them as if they were his best friend but, most important of all, listen without interrupting. He possessed an ability to pay attention; he had a knack of listening to monotonous conversations without appearing bored. It was this talent he used to full effect in the prison, making friends with criminals that would be of use to him on his release. His secret was giving off the impression that he was just another criminal. No one who encountered him during this period considered him anything but a thief. He was a small man who smiled continuously, knew a few tricky businessmen and looked forward to his wife’s visits. Gambling was his only character flaw.

In prison, he gambled on everything. Whether he was on the prison landings or in the exercise yard, he would produce a deck of cards to passers-by. He would bet on two flies crawling up a wall. ‘Pick a card, buy a Crunchie,’ he would say, holding out a shuffled deck. Two cards would be drawn. Whoever chose the lowest would be obliged to buy a Crunchie in the prison tuck shop. But this was a front, a persona he created for life behind bars.

With perfect cunning, Gilligan managed to become a central figure on E1, effectively representing the prisoners to the authorities but at all times staying in the background. He nominated others to approach the Governor on issues relating to their living conditions.

Brian Kenna was the then Officer Commanding of the Provisional IRA volunteers gaoled in Portlaoise at the time. ‘Gilligan became like a spokesman for the prisoners down in E1. In a lot of cases others would go and argue with the Governor, but it was under the direction of John Gilligan. The others didn’t seem to be bothered one way or the other. They didn’t seem to care who represented them or whether they were represented at all. If they had a problem, they would go see the Governor themselves. Gilligan seemed to be the main mover,’ he said.

In other words, Gilligan directed manoeuvres from a discreet distance. This was an indication of Gilligan’s organisational skills. ‘You could see him getting organised; he was also clever enough to keep a distance between himself and the Governor so that he wasn’t seen to be rocking the boat,’ said Kenna.

By fighting for better conditions in the prison, Gilligan ingratiated himself with his fellow inmates. Because he was a natural-born networker, he devoted his energies to getting to know everyone inside. If this was part of some grand plan to build a coterie of accomplices around him, it is known only to him. But this is exactly what happened.

Prison prepared him for a life of organised crime and drug trafficking. Housing violent criminals in Portlaoise Prison alongside the likes of Gilligan was, Kenna says, a recipe for disaster.

‘Men like Gilligan were the nearest thing Ireland had seen to organised crime—they had the gangs, contacts in the gardaí, prison system, social welfare, the courts, basically extensive networks on the outside. Or, in some cases, they had the ability to develop networks. They were career criminals.

‘Gilligan was introduced to strong or hard men in Portlaoise, men he was able to manipulate. A lot of these were in awe of Gilligan. It was easy for him to manipulate these people, who frankly mightn’t have had an awful lot between their ears. They were just fellas who got involved in crime but would never have made much money. But when these were introduced to people like Gilligan, who could scheme long term, the prison system effectively gave him foot soldiers,’ he added.

While Gilligan resisted joining an established criminal gang, he certainly learned from them, particularly the concept of how to run a paramilitary organisation. He watched the INLA and how they operated, and listened to Dessie O’Hare’s ramblings about revolutionary and guerrilla warfare. Although most of what he heard was defunct nonsense, Gilligan did gain insight into how groups like the INLA hand-picked men to perform certain tasks. He also learned about how to structure a criminal organisation into cells.

‘The top criminal brains were housed on the one landing, and so they compared notes. That’s where Gilligan came into his own. He sat back and identified people in any particular area, whether it be someone with a van, someone with a yard, someone who could get registration numbers checked. He met them in Portlaoise and recruited them,’ explained Kenna.

It is easy to conjecture how this happened. Kenna saw Gilligan as having a remarkable ability to learn from others. ‘He could pick everybody’s brains, even without having to talk to them, by just sitting there and listening to them. He used everyone’s skills. He was like a personnel manager, for want of a better word. He was good at managing people on a one-to-one basis for a bigger picture. And he obviously did that very effectively.’

High-profile prisoners serving sentences usually avoid each other in prison to lessen confrontations. Portlaoise Prison, however, forced some of the State’s most hardened adversaries to talk.

‘You had 40 top-profile prisoners confined in a small space that couldn’t break out, control, subvert or bully anyone. You had the most unruly criminals in the State, and republicans keeping them in line. Did they run amuck?’ Kenna asked rhetorically.

True to form, most of the criminals on E1 did keep to themselves. Some of the younger, more impressionable ones looked up to Gilligan. He would talk to them as if he were their father, defend them when necessary and help them out. They would eat breakfast, lunch and tea in his company and follow him around the exercise yard.

One of Gilligan’s devotees was Brian Meehan, who was a protégé of Martin Cahill, the gangland criminal known as the General. Cahill had recruited Meehan as a youth and turned him into a highly skilled getaway driver. Meehan had a number of dysfunctional character flaws and no sense of family values. As a boy, he lived with his parents on Stanaway Road in Crumlin, but hung around the run-down, drug-infested Fatima Mansions complex. With 15 convictions under his belt, he was serving time in Portlaoise for his role in an armed raid on the Allied Irish Bank on Grafton Street in central Dublin. He and Paul ‘Hippo’ Ward, a miscreant youth who grew up in Windmill Park in Crumlin, would discuss crime with Gilligan in his cell, sometimes for hours.

Gilligan never said much, recalled George Royal, one former inmate. ‘They would all be sitting in the cell. Meehan would be the loudmouth, going on about how one fella he knew was making thousands selling drugs. They’d be all looking at each other saying, “How can he be making that much from selling dope?” They would say, “Sure he’s a fucking eejit. If he can do it, so can we. Think how much we could make, with the backup we have.”

‘This was all talk with Meehan, but Gilligan would sit there and listen. He never said a word, he just listened, but was taking everything in. Make no doubt about it, that’s where it all started,’ said Royal.

Not everything about prison life proved positive for Gilligan. Contrary to what he would have everyone believe, he was deeply insecure with regards to his personal life. Fear of losing his wife perturbed him greatly: he lamented that he was not with his wife and at home to see his two children through the turbulent teenage years. He felt ill at ease about his marriage, often convincing himself that she would leave him for another man or simply seek a separation or marriage annulment, although this seemed only a potential reality to him. It fuelled an intense hatred of prison, and this festered in his psyche. It played on his mind, annoyed him and thwarted whatever sense of logic he possessed. A desire for release absorbed his energies and consumed his mind.

By the summer of 1992 this craving for freedom began to eat away at him. He missed his wife and the home they shared. He would write long letters to her, exposing his innermost secrets in the full knowledge that the prison authorities would see his softer side. One of the letters showed the tender side of their relationship.

Portlaoise Prison,

Dublin Road,

Portlaoise,

Co. Laois

10 August ´92

Dear Geraldine,

Just a line or two to say I love you so very, very much and that you looked so beautiful today, your [sic] lovely. I’m so proud to be your husband and best friend so I am. Ger I really had a nice day. I hope it was half as good for you. I will find out tomorrow when I am going up to Dublin and then let you know on the phone this week or the weekend ok. Geraldine tell Darren I said thanks for been [sic] so good, so good for you, he is a good son thank God.

Well honey I can’t wait to get Christmas over with its less than 20 weeks away and as soon as its [sic] over with we will be only counting the months that I have left (agree) ok but for now lets take it at a week at a time agree.

Geraldine I know I ask you to do a lot for me but as you know I would do the same for you. Geraldine I think this letter is after going from a love one to a do this or do that (agree). I’m sorry love its [sic] just I want things to go right for you as you could do with the money They all owe me ok love.

Geraldine do you still love me I know I know its hard. I’m just lovesick. Sure head I would die for you, I love you that much. Geraldine I will say good night and god bless you, you’re my dream come true so you my love are.

From your loving tea maker HA. HA.

All my love your

Husband and best Friend, I love You Billions

Love John

XXXXX

Inside the prison environs, when not absorbed in dreams and private thoughts, Gilligan was an al-together different man. He made unreasonable demands on the prison service. He turned into a difficult person; in essence a problematic prisoner. This irrational behaviour continued unabated and culminated in his attacking Tom Dormer, the Chief Prison Officer in charge of E1, on 22 October 1992. Gilligan had requested that the prison authorities supply him with copies of confidential records he wanted to give to his wife. He knew he was not entitled to prison files but had made the request anyway. At 4 p.m. Dormer approached him on the prison landing to tell him his request had been denied. When he turned his back on Gilligan, the prisoner lashed out, punching him from behind. The blow loosened Dormer’s teeth and left his jaw bruised. The prison authorities transferred Gilligan to Cork Prison immediately. He was held there in solitary confinement for the next two months without privileges.

The gardaí were called in to investigate and took a statement from Dormer and another warden who witnessed the attack. Gilligan declined to make any comment to the police.

Solitary confinement affected him deeply. Solitude broke him and he became dispirited, unhygienic, dirty and lacking in any self-respect. Realising that he was slipping into a depression, Geraldine travelled to him. She urged him to do something about his situation, to take redress through the courts.