In late February, a former NSW Police officer made admissions in criminal proceedings against him that he knowingly gave false evidence under oath during separate criminal proceedings involving Jack de Belin and the sexual assault charges he faced, and defended, twice.
That officer – being assigned to investigate in relation to the charges laid against de Belin and his co- accused late in 2018 – admitted he had viewed text messages de Belin had exchanged with his lawyer, before later claiming he considered the messages to be football-related communications.
The former officer’s admission obliterates the immutable actuality that communications between de Belin and his lawyer are protected by legal professional privilege. That privilege is sacrosanct and sits at the core of our legal system. Such communications most certainly mustn’t be accessible by law enforcement.
The (now) ex-officer has pleaded guilty to a charge related to him giving false evidence under oath; perjurious conduct. The ex-officer, assigned a pseudonym by the court to protect his identity, faces sentencing proceedings later in 2025. Given his guilty plea, it can at least be stated that this conduct constitutes an egregious breach of the public’s trust in law enforcement and the administration of justice.
Moreover, it’s impossible to know the relative importance of these matters in connection with de Belin being charged by the police in the first place. The player faced two criminal trials that resulted in inconclusive outcomes before the Department of Public Prosecutions withdrew all unresolved charges.
We can’t know whether the police might have made different decisions in the absence of the conduct now admitted to by the ex-officer. We can’t know how the proceedings before the court might have played out differently. We can’t know whether this might have been a relevant factor in the Director of Public Prosecutions deciding to re-prosecute in a second trial after the first trial didn’t result in a conclusive outcome.
Dragons prop jack de Belin playing against Canterbury in round one.Credit: Getty Images
The police aren’t supposed to lay charges in the first place unless there’s a determination made that there’s enough evidence to have a reasonable likelihood of securing a conviction. Plainly, that principle doesn’t always restrain the prosecution, but it’s how it’s meant to work the other side of the thin blue line.
The relative importance of all of this lies in the fact that in early 2019 after the details of the facts alleged against de Belin and his co-accused became publicly known following a court directions hearing, sporting rules were put into force to allow the NRL to exclude from the game – on a purely no-fault and no-assumptions basis – players who are charged with serious criminal offences and crimes involving female and child victims.
The application of those rules caused de Belin to miss the 2019 NRL season, the entire 2020 season, and around half of the 2021 season. He was paid throughout by St George Illawarra; the club could have elected to cut the player loose.
The balance of convenience, of course, must enable the NRL to exclude players from the game on an interim basis and in limited circumstances. That’s not in issue and it’s not a difficult argument to prosecute; the terms of the exclusion, however, require closer examination.
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Criminal charges are mere police allegations; nothing greater. Anyone charged by the police is presumed innocent; that’s easy to say, sometimes harder as a concept for people to bend their minds around.
But it can’t be countenanced that if a player is charged with crimes of a particularly heinous or revolting nature, they should nonetheless be allowed to proceed with their career unhindered pending their day in court, because they’re presumed innocent. That’s the balance.
There’s a manifest danger in a governing body conducting any disciplinary processes while criminal proceedings remain outstanding. Any documents created or information gathered could be subpoenaed by the prosecution; forcing a player into a disciplinary investigation is tantamount to forcing them to abrogate both their right to silence and their privilege against self-incrimination.
Think of it like forcing a criminal defendant to give evidence at their own trial – which of course can’t and never does happen.
Jack de Belin playing for NSW in 2018.Credit: Getty
A player can’t defend themselves in that sporting disciplinary investigation any more successfully than a one-legged man can win a world championship arse-kicking contest. The sport must, however, be permitted passage to do something, where the court process can take years.
The NRL’s no-fault stand-down rule is rooted in the idea that once a player is charged with a serious criminal offence, their continued participation in the NRL has the propensity to damage the best image, interests and welfare of the professional game. That damage is manifest, although the game can’t be inoculated by excluding the player.
The NRL’s rules provide for a self-executing and immediate standing down of a player charged with a serious crime, carrying maximum jail time of 11 years or more. However, the residual discretion exists to stand down players charged with offences involving violence against women or other particular elements. A standing down of a player operates until all criminal proceedings are concluded.
That’s all well and good, but there must be boundaries. To wit, consider the conundrum of former Panthers player Taylan May, he of the eponymous neck tattoo. In late March 2024, he inked a $1.2 million, two-year extension on his then-current playing contract, meaning he’d remain at the club until the end of 2026.
Shortly thereafter, the NSW Police laid charges against May, alleging that on April 8, 2024 he punched his wife in the face, and elsewhere. May was charged with three offences, with those charges then listed to be determined in court this week.
Pausing there, rightly the NRL activated the discretionary component of its no-fault policy and prohibited May from playing in or otherwise being involved with the competition until the finalisation of the criminal matters. What that meant was that he couldn’t play or train for the Panthers, or otherwise participate in their activities, for the balance of the 2024 season and beyond. He hasn’t played an NRL game since.
Later in 2024, May was sacked by the Panthers, for matters apparently unconnected with the criminal proceedings and more revolving around social media nastiness and joyriding as a passenger in an Audi R8. Thereafter, May was unable to obtain alternate employment with any other NRL club.
This week, all criminal charges against the player were dropped; the NRL’s no fault ban was lifted, and it’s since been declared that there’s no barrier against May’s return to the bosom of rugby league.
That there’s no barrier to Taylan May resuming his career doesn’t serve to wallpaper over the cracks and deficiencies in the NRL’s stand-down system. The player has missed out on maybe a year’s remuneration and over half a million in the folding stuff, where the NRL contracting system does nothing to preserve the employee/employer status quo, in a manner consistent with the player being presumed innocent and stood down without any findings or determinations adverse to the player.
Jack de Belin was fortunate his employer stood by him; it’s obvious that some clubs won’t have much truck for remaining loyal to a player accused of nasty criminal conduct, such is the reputational stain and financial consequence of having a player on your books. That’s especially so when they can’t play.
It can’t be known what Penrith’s real motivations were, in terminating Taylan May’s contract in 2024. If the player ends up back at the same club now, that will reveal an immense amount.
Yet considered from the opposite angle, what’s a club supposed to do? What decisions should it make, should it be so misfortunate that three players are stood down, as part of a joint criminal enterprise perhaps? What about five?
There’s only so much elasticity in the rubber band, which is the NRL’s salary cap, even accounting for the moderate dispensations which might be offered. Players don’t grow out in crops in the field; replacements can’t be found, and some people who know much more than me consider that the player pool has already been drained.
The system of standing players down from all privileges attaching to their NRL-contracted status, even for a short time and on an interim basis has the propensity to cause irreparable economic and other types of harm. It strikes me though, that neither the NRL, its clubs nor perhaps even the players’ representative association, have been able to strike the appropriate balance.
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