Vagos, Mongols, and Outlaws: My Infiltration of America's Deadliest Biker Gangs

by Charles Falco

  Ho Jo’s death was payback for what happened in Maine.

  * * *

  Tomcat plunked himself next to Johnny. “When I go, the cops are going with me.” He sobered, looking pale and older than his years. Gray singed his temple. Stress ravaged him. “I have nightmares every night,” he said, wiping condensation from his bottle. “I think about death all the time, my head split open like a pumpkin.” He looked at me, and the coldness in his gaze chilled me. “Ever have those kinds of thoughts?”

  I swallowed, shook my head.

  Tomcat worried that Madman would talk. “He’s been arrested, you know.” I nodded. “I’m never getting caught.” He finished his beer. In the shadowy dark he looked like Johnny’s ghost. “When they come for me,” he elaborated, “I’ll open fire.”

  I didn’t talk him out of it. I didn’t believe him. Every criminal spoke of suicide by cop. I had. If Tomcat did execute his plan, he would catapult himself into legend; he would become the great “Outlaw cop killer,” a label more prestigious than the SS bolts tattooed across his belly. He would achieve in death what he never managed in life: purpose. Tomcat dozed into his nightmare, his head resting on Johnny’s glazed white arm. I switched off my recorder. In the haze, in the quiet, I processed Tomcat’s exit, haunted by his promise. He would rather die an Outlaw than face a life behind bars, forced to relive his fractured past. Being a gangster was part of his blueprint, part of his identity. He accepted his scarred present, his life without future.

  Johnny was lucky, he said. He died the way he lived, with no responsibility, no repercussion, a true Outlaw.

  “He finished well.”

  * * *

  Johnny’s funeral procession the next day resembled a presidential cavalcade. Because my arm was in a sling, I led the pack of over three hundred “marauding sociopaths” in my undercover SUV. Outlaws support clubs roared alongside us. Crowds on the sidewalks parted for the procession; police fanned around us like paparazzi, snapping photos, recording identities, absorbing the bearded faces, swastikas, and skulls. The Outlaws, still in costume, played solemn. Acting was self-preservation. Most had to know that the body in the box—calm faced and frighteningly ordinary—could just as easily be them next week, next year. It was what I would have become had I stayed a criminal. Family mixed with bikers and shed real tears. The club had its own minister, who presided and blessed the body. Every Outlaw signed a legal agreement when he joined, specifying whether he wished to have a biker or “traditional” funeral. It was important to know how they wanted to be remembered.

  They were “Outlaws forever, forever Outlaws.”

  * * *

  “You think he’ll do it?” I shared Tomcat’s suicide threat with JD only to learn that Tomcat had also warned him.

  “We have to prepare like he will.”

  On a quiet June morning just before dawn, federal agents, state police troopers, and Old Orchard Beach police descended on a small house at 5 Sandy Circle. They crouched behind bushes, crunched along a gravel path. The skies, heavy with impending rain, held a sense of foreboding. A top window cracked open. A curtain fluttered in the breeze. The agents wore bulletproof vests and full riot raid gear, and brought videotape and an armored tank. Then gunfire shattered the stillness. Four ATF agents, armed with rifles, returned fire. And in less than seven seconds, Tomcat’s life ended. Police found his body in the top bedroom, still clutching his empty ten-shot .40 caliber semi-automatic pistol. Propped against the wall, his rifle and shotgun waited beneath a banner that read GOD FORGIVES, OUTLAWS DON’T. Tomcat’s wife sobbed on the bed beside him, spattered in his blood; across the hall, their young daughter blinked back tears.

  “The whole scene was unsettling,” a neighbor reported.

  The word “unsettling” repeated in the media—definitive and empty.

  Tomcat’s death hit me especially hard. He represented what I might have become had I embraced that life. He had a family, too.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, on Milwaukee’s south side, federal agents dressed in bulletproof vests and full raid gear stormed the Outlaws’ headquarters, an ominous black fortress boldly painted with skulls and pistons. They arrested twenty-seven of Milwaukee Jack’s minions and associates and charged them in a sealed twelve-count indictment with operating a criminal enterprise that engaged in attempted murder, kidnapping, assault, robbery, extortion, witness intimidation, narcotics distribution, illegal gambling, and weapons violations. The government lauded the captures as “another aggressive attempt by the Department of Justice to dismantle” a gang “whose entire environment” revolved around violence.” The Outlaws decried the arrests as nothing more than a “witch hunt to justify the money” expended on Operation Black Diamond.

  The raids that spanned multiple states including Wisconsin, Maine, Montana, North Carolina, Tennessee, South Carolina, and Virginia produced an arsenal of illegal firearms—Mac-11s, Uzis, machine guns, assault rifles, sawed-off shotguns, small-caliber handguns, explosives—and large quantities of marijuana, cocaine, and oxycodone. With purported gangsters behind bars, the government prepared to litigate against a “violent enterprise” that ruled by “fear and intimidation” and “live[d], breathe[d], and celebrate[d] that violence.”

  But prosecutions against motorcycle gangs have notoriously led to deadly consequences for witnesses. The case of the Milwaukee Sentinel carrier, Larry Anstett, still smarted in people’s memories. The teen blew up when he picked up a bomb disguised as a present. It had been placed on a car owned by a member of a rival motorcycle gang who had testified against the Outlaws. Six unsolved murders followed Anstett’s bombing. Survivors of the explosion (both Outlaws and civilians) purported to have no knowledge of who placed the bomb on the car. Among those executed, an elderly couple and a wife and son found shot to death in their home.

  In addition to murder, gangs, including the Outlaws, have litigated (and won) lawsuits against law enforcement for allegedly exercising “excessive force” and “overkill” when conducting raids. One account reported a “full-scale armed raid” on a biker gang’s headquarters, replete with “snipers on rooftops, bulletproof vests and a tank” after a woman was found bleeding on the pavement outside the gang’s clubhouse door. Police arrived with “all the boys, all the toys, and all the weaponry,” and aimed “to create shock and awe, but all they achieved was to make a gang of hairy, scary outlaws look like sympathetic characters and the victims of excessive force.”

  “America is a wonderful place,” one biker remarked to reporters after emerging victorious in his lawsuit. “Thanks to the police … every one of [us] has a new motorcycle and I’ve bought a very nice house in the country.”

  Milwaukee Jack sued, too, complaining of “mental anguish, anxiety, emotional distress, and loss of enjoyment of life” as a result of police harassment. Law enforcement arrested him after reports that he was laying in wait on his clubhouse rooftop armed with long rifles. His version: He was fixing a leaky roof. “Nineteen officers rushed the clubhouse without warrants, shoving guns in our faces.” When reporters asked some of the Outlaws to explain the long rifle officers recovered from the rooftop, one remarked, “You know we don’t talk.”

  * * *

  Of the twenty-seven indicted, twenty-three entered guilty pleas. Four proceeded to trial in a federal Richmond court; two were acquitted, and the remaining two, despite the threat of retaliation, did testify for the government. Madman pled guilty to conspiracy charges and insisted he executed Milwaukee Jack’s orders when he shot the Hells Angel outside the clubhouse in Canaan, Maine.

  “He’s a wannabe national enforcer.” A defense witness, an Outlaw named Barboza, dismissed Madman as a “rogue” who “liked to pump himself up.” Barboza fidgeted on the stand, and looked to Jack for approval after he uttered each statement, as if he had been given a script in advance and was warned about improvisation. He conceded that some Outlaws had acted like apes, “thumping their chests, yelling and screaming,” but as far a
s “organized crime,” “never, no way.”

  Jack’s public defender in closing argument dismissed Madman’s accusations as “ridiculous”—there “was no organized war against the Hells Angels.” Jack was a grandfather, a “working stiff,” a “regular guy” who operated a small trucking company. He “doesn’t smoke and has an occasional sip of Crown Royal.” “A guy like that presents a good face for this group,” his lawyer finished. She was partially right. Jack’s sparse criminal history and “legitimate” salary gave him the appearance of a businessman, the perfect disguise for a gangster. Letters to the court described him as “hardworking,” “dedicated,” a man who “never quit before the job was finished.” With a wife who’d overdosed and a son convicted of nine burglaries, Jack still considered himself a “family man” and someone who never kept his Outlaw status a secret. After a two-week trial and four days of deliberation, the jury of five women and seven men were hung.

  Jack’s attorney remarked that her client might be “the president of the Outlaws, but not the leader of a criminal conspiracy. Like any other organization, the club is not necessarily responsible for the actions of its members, much like corporations and law enforcement agencies.” But that was precisely the government’s point: Though the indictments charged individuals, it insisted that the members existed as Outlaws in order to expand their criminal empire.

  Jurors believed as much when they convicted Les, the former Copper Region boss and current vice president of the Outlaws’ South Carolina Rock Hill chapter, of conspiracy to commit racketeering and to commit violence in aid of racketeering.

  The government retried Jack, portraying him as the club’s puppeteer. Prosecutors called him “the worst of the worst,” a criminal who “spent decades dedicated to a criminal way of life,” a man who needed to spend “decades in prison paying for his crimes.” And jurors wised up; they convicted Jack of racketeering and committing violent crimes against the Hells Angels. U.S. District Court Judge Henry Hudson called Jack a “criminal architect” who designed “a culture of violence.” He sentenced him to twenty years in prison.

  And while the press insisted that his conviction struck “a crippling blow to [the] violent motorcycle gang,” made Virginia a “safer place,” and transformed the agents who “put their lives on the line” into heroes, we all still lived at full throttle, still wary of the day Jack would be released to rebuild.

  We had reason to worry. Snuff’s attorney, too, begged for leniency, said a “maximum sentence” would mean that her client would “never again see the light of day.” When she wheeled Snuff to the podium, she hoped for sympathy. But he looked no less a monster in jail cotton. He pled guilty to conspiracy to violate federal racketeering laws. His worst repercussion: forfeiture of his motorcycle. His lawyer recited his many health issues: “emphysema, diabetes, chronic pain, kidney stones.” “He could easily die in prison,” she insisted. But the judge was unmoved. He pushed his readers higher on his nose, glared at Snuff’s imposing body in the wheelchair, and waited for him to grovel.

  “He’s changed his life around,” his lawyer tried again.

  “That’s unfortunate” and “a little too late,” the judge groused. He directed his barbs at Snuff: “You went into this [endeavor] with your eyes wide open.”

  “I know I screwed up.” Snuff shrugged. “Stick a fork in me, I’m finished.”

  The judge sentenced him to five years in federal prison.

  * * *

  In the end, most, like Snuff, pled for deliverance. They begged for mercy and concession. They insisted they hunted maggots, not people, not humans with conscience. None showed remorse. Instead they boasted of consistency and flaunted the most important “tool” of a gangster—the ability “to kill [their] conscience.” As “opportunists,” they made deals, time in exchange for voyeurism, for a glimpse into their world, for a chance to stop their growth. They flipped on each other like a crafty outlay of dominoes, each the other’s own worst enemy.

  “The best witnesses are gang members,” the police explained. “Most have shifting loyalties, scores to settle, lasting grudges, and scorned friends.” It doesn’t take much.

  As the members toppled, one by one, and went off to prison to live out lonely existences behind bars, the agents, too, resumed solo acts. Bobby returned to Iraq; Gringo and JD recycled into new undercover assignments in undisclosed areas of the country. And I quietly disappeared, comforted by the knowledge that I had helped to “suffocate a criminal octopus” whose hold over the East Coast had released a violent ink so debilitating it nearly crippled the communities suctioned in its tentacles. But like every sea creature, it was only a matter of time before it reproduced, mutated, revived, and spread new malignant cells.

  Aftermath

  OPERATION 22 GREEN

  The following defendants were convicted of murder, manslaughter, assault with a deadly weapon, and/or narcotics-related charges—all felonies—either by plea or a jury trial.

  BANDIT (Adam Lannon). Assault with a deadly weapon; one year in jail and one strike.

  BUBBA (Kenneth Willoughby). Assault with a deadly weapon and distribution and manufacture of a controlled substance; two years and one strike.

  ELMO (Scott Hawthorne). Assault with a deadly weapon and distribution of marijuana.

  ERIC (Eric Zwarkowski). Assault with a deadly weapon.

  JOE (Josiah Apduhan). Assault with a deadly weapon.

  KNUCKLES (Keith Ennis). Assault with a deadly weapon and distribution of methamphetamine; four years in state prison.

  POWDER (Lawrence Shefchick Jr.). Two counts possession to distribute dangerous weapons. Five years’ probation; two strikes.

  PSYCHO (Scott Sikoff). Assault with a deadly weapon and distribution of marijuana; one year and one strike.

  RHINO (Ryan Matteson). Voluntary manslaughter and attempted burglary; one year and one strike.

  RUST (Rodney Rust). Assault with a deadly weapon; one year and one strike.

  TERRIBLE (Terry Sherwood). Distribution and manufacture of a controlled substance; consecutive five years in state prison, ten in federal.

  TWIST (Daniel Lee Foreman). Murder, life sentence.

  VINNY (Vincent Mariano). Distribution of marijuana; one year and one strike.

  WALTER (Walter Merritt). Assault with a deadly weapon.

  MURDERED

  TRUCK (Tim Quarders).

  OPERATION BLACK DIAMOND

  The following defendants were convicted of RICO-related crimes (conspiracy to engage in racketeering activities and to engage in violence in aid of racketeering) by plea or a jury trial, and were sentenced to federal prison.

  ALIBI (Christopher Timbers). Thirty-seven, Outlaw in the Manassas/Shenandoah Valley chapter of the Copper Region. Convicted at trial; seven and a half years.

  JOSEPH ALLMAN. Forty-six, Outlaw in the Red region, previously president and enforcer in the Maine chapter. Fifteen months.

  BRETT (Brett Longendyke). Thirty-two, Outlaw in the Copper Region and served as the Manassas/Shenandoah Valley chapter enforcer. Pled guilty; four years.

  BULL (John Banthem). Forty-six, president of a new prospective Outlaws chapter in Montana. Pled guilty; twenty-four months.

  CHRIS (Chris Gagner). Thirty-seven, Outlaw in the Copper Region and president and treasurer of the Asheville, North Carolina, chapter. Twelve months.

  HARRY (Harry Rhyne McCall). Fifty-three, Outlaw in the Copper Region, Lexington, North Carolina, chapter. Convicted at trial; thirteen and a half years.

  JASON (Mark Jason Fiel). Thirty-seven, former Outlaw in the Copper Region and former leader in the Manassas/Shenandoah Valley chapter. Sentenced to 114 months or 9.5 years.

  LES (Leslie Werth). Forty-seven, Outlaw and vice president of the Rock Hill, South Carolina, chapter; previously boss of the Copper Region. Convicted at trial; twenty-two months.

  LITTLE DAVID (David Lowry). Forty-fine, Outlaw Copper Region boss. Cooperated with the government and pled guilty to reduced charges;
nine years.

  MADMAN (Michael Pedini). Thirty-nine, Outlaw in the Red Region and former enforcer in the Northern Maine chapter. Pled guilty to conspiracy charges; sixty-three months in federal prison.

  M & M (Michael Mariaca). Fifty, former president of the Outlaws’ Rock Hill, South Carolina, chapter and Copper Region enforcer. Cooperated with the government and pled guilty to reduced charges; nine years.

  MILWAUKEE JACK (Jack Rosga). Fifty-three, national boss of the Outlaws organization and member of the Gold Region, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, chapter. Convicted at a second trial; twenty years.

  MICHAEL SMITH. Fifty-one, Outlaw in the Copper Region and president of the Hickory, North Carolina, chapter. Forty-two months.

  SNUFF (Steven Mark Fiel). Fifty-nine, Outlaw in the Copper Region and former leader in the Manassas/Shenandoah Valley chapter. Pled guilty; five years.

  TAZ (Thomas Benvie). Forty-one, Outlaw in the Red Region and president of the Maine chapter. Fifteen months.

  VERN (James Townsend). Forty-four, president of the Outlaws’ Lexington, North Carolina, chapter. Two months.

  KILLED

  TOMCAT (Thomas Mayne). Fifty-nine, Outlaw in the Red Region and former regional treasurer and enforcer. He was gunned down.

  CONDUCTING ILLEGAL GAMBLING BUSINESS

  L’IL DAVE (Harold Herndon). Forty-eight, former vice president of the Lexington, North Carolina, Outlaws chapter. Pled guilty; sixteen months.

  ROBBERY

  IVAN (Mark Lester). Fifty-five, Outlaw in the Knoxville, Tennessee, chapter and served as the boss of the Grey Region. Twenty-seven months.

  DRUG CHARGES AND POSSESSION OF A FIREARM

  BRIAN (Brian McDermott). Fifty, Outlaw in the Copper Region’s Hickory, North Carolina, chapter. Pled guilty to distribution of methamphetamine and possession of firearms in furtherance of a drug crime; eight years.