Within my first month of new freedom, I scored a welding job through Dee’s brother in law.
Perkins Iron and Fence was a small outfit located in Downy California specializing in small steel fabrication and erection, with additional division that did all types of fencing. They started me at 16 bucks an hour which wasn’t too bad for a shop welder, plus it kept me out of trouble and helped financially to make ends meet. With the new job, the days flew by.
Before I knew it, six months had passed since my release from prison. With no court date and the D.A. still unwilling to consider any type of a (time served deal), the thought of a new trial was not only dreading but seemed certain, I just didn’t know when it was coming.
At home, things continued to deteriorate. Maybe it was the constant stress of an eventual trial or a combination of other things, but Dee and I seemed to argue over everything.
Perkins Iron had scored a big contract, so I was moved to welding in the field, which also came with a raise in pay. Along with the big contract came lots of overtime. I suddenly found myself working all the overtime I could get just to avoid going home.
Between the noisy disrespectful teenagers and Dee’s constant yelling and screaming about everything, I was freakin miserable. I knew I was trapped in a jacked-up relationship, but for my own best interest I had to stay.
One night while Dee and I were watching T.V., we came across this documentary about this guy that had been wrongfully convicted of a crime. After serving many years in prison, new found evidence exonerated him and he was released. After his release, he sued the police department and the county for falsifying evidence that led to his wrongful conviction.
Not only did he win the case but got awarded a big chunk of money for the time he was locked up. I turned to Dee “Why can’t I do that?”
After winning my bail hearing, Valerie Mills could no longer represent me, so again I found myself with my third state appointed attorney.
Max Miller would be my last and final attorney. Hopefully Max would be the one to finally cut the tether that bound me. Max’s theory was to keep extending court dates, which would keep me on the streets longer and hopefully tire out the D.A. eventually forcing him to cut a time served deal. Max’s bald head and gray razor stubble along with his pot belly was far from intimidating but his knowledge of the law was impressive.
After seeing that documentary on T.V., I suggested the idea to Max, which to my surprise, did have some experience in civil law. “Before you get too excited, let me do some homework.” The following week I received a call from Max wanting to meet for lunch.
Dee and I pulled off Imperial Ave. into the parking lot of The Hat, a well-known Orange County lunch joint, known for their huge pastrami sandwiches. Entering the restaurant, Max flagged us over to his corner table. With both hands groping a huge pastrami sandwich, he took a bite. I watched as a drop of mustard rolled off his chin and slid down his tie. “You guy’s gonna get somethin to eat?” Suddenly lost my appetite, but asked Dee if she wanted anything (you know how she gets if you don’t offer her food) she also declined.
Max’s thoughts were to go after the bar owner instead of the local police department. Even if the bar owner and bar tender were to say they were co-horsed into lying, the fact of the matter they both still lied on the witness stand, denying the victim had a knife, which along with other things, led to my wrongful conviction. Max’s research also found that along with Armand’s (the bar), the Contreras’s (the owners) also had a stake in a few other properties, a couple of homes and a duplex.
“Let’s go after the liars!” Said Max, while dabbing at the mustard stain with a wet napkin. “I’ll file a case in civil court and after the Contreras’s get served with the subpoena, we’ll get a court date.” I knew it was a longshot, but so was the writ. I was on a good roll, so why not throw the dice again?
About a month later, I got call from Max notifying me that the Contreras’s had been served with a subpoena and we had a court date. The following week Dee and I found ourselves standing outside the courthouse but now under quite different circumstances, this time if I lost the case, I wasn’t going to prison.
With optimism, the three of us entered the empty court room. It was 10:30 AM and we were the only ones there; “Where is everybody?” At about 10:40 the judge entered the courtroom with a disgusted look on his face and called Max to the bench. They chatted for a brief minute then Max returned with a smile.
“They didn’t show, they were served the subpoena and didn’t respond.” I knew what this meant, but Max still clarified. “Maybe they think this is some kind of fuckin joke, but if they don’t show up to the next hearing date, there’s a strong possibility you’ll win this case by default and the judge can grant you any amount he wants.” Max said it was always best to shoot high, so we did and asked for compensation of one million dollars.
A couple weeks later, we found ourselves again in an empty courtroom. Just like the time before, the Contreras’s were a no show. On that day in a San Fernando Valley Civil courtroom I got my second miracle. A pissed off judge slammed down his gavel in my favor and awarded me the sum of 3.2 million dollars. Yeah, you read that right, I was suddenly a multi-millionaire, or at least on paper.
While I was at work, Dee used her computer skills to access public information and along with numerous phone calls, located and validated all the properties owned by the Contreras’s. There was the bar of course, a house, a duplex and a couple of vacant lots, but no matter how you did the math, the Contreras’s weren’t even close to being worth 3.2 million dollars.
With all their properties combined, we were still looking at a net worth somewhere around the 1.5 million -dollar range, which was still a nice chunk of change, the only problem was getting it. I figured it would be a piece of cake, the judge forces them to sell or simply hand over the property deeds to me, but I was soon to realize it wasn’t that easy.
Our first move was to get all the accurate addresses of the Contreras’s properties, (which were in three different cities) then, using the court documents showing my award, I filed a lien on each one, freezing all assets.
By doing this, the Contreras’s were unable to sell any of the properties. Just as Max predicted, this quickly got their attention. Suddenly the Contreras’s realized this wasn’t a joke and immediately retained an attorney, who swiftly filed a motion for appeal on the court’s decision.
Max didn’t have to tell me what this meant, I’d already experienced enough with the judicial system and (especially the Court of Appeals) to know this thing could get caught up in court for years. For me, this meant there wouldn’t be any easy money, but on the other hand for the Contreras’s, there was a freeze on all their assets. I’m sure when the judge ruled in my favor, he knew I’d have to pay hell to get any real money out of this thing. The truth was, he ruled in my favor simply because he was pissed off at the Contreras’s for not showing.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did. Dee and I were fighting over every little thing.
Since she was high maintenance and very materialistic, I’m sure the fact that we were millionaires on paper and still living paycheck to paycheck frustrated her.
I would usually arrive at the condo around 6:00PM, park the car, walk up the steps, and always take a deep breath before opening the door because I knew an argument about something stupid would immediately ensue. On a good note, Dee was a damn good cook, so I just had to put up with her bullshit till dinner, then after the tasty meal I’d go directly to bed.
◆◆◆
It was now the first week of April 2002. I’d been out for the best part of nineteen months and except for a deteriorating relationship, things seemed to be going well.
I worked my way up to a foreman at Perkins which came with another pay-raise and a company truck, also in that time, I’d had a couple of court dates.
With the D.A. still unwilling to consider any reasonable plea bargains, Max would again ask
for a continuance and it would be granted. With the same judge since day one, like Max, he’d also urged the D.A. to be reasonable. I mean let’s be realistic, this was only a freakin bar room brawl and everybody including the judge, (for the exception the D.A.) thought I’d done enough time. But like the proverbial turd in a punch bowl, the fact that I was JUNIOR of the MONGOLS would always pop back up into view.
Since the beginning of my new-found freedom, I’d received numerous invitations (through third parties) to attend MONGOL functions, but with the club’s sudden growth in membership to be frank, I wasn’t sure who could be trusted. Even though I missed it, I felt these parties were too risky to attend. Just the thought of going back to L.A. County Jail made my stomach turn.
On a quiet Friday night, exhausted from a hard day’s work as I lay in bed, I was startled by the sudden ringing of the phone. It was a retired MONGOL brother inviting me to another MONGOL party, but this time he assured me things were different. This was private party being held at a secret location and only a selected few of long time and well-respected members would be attending. As I heard the names of some of the attending brothers, I felt secure. I’d known all these guys for years and without a doubt felt confident they all could be trusted.
Thirsty for brotherhood, I just needed a little taste, so decided to take the chance and attend.
Sitting on the condo balcony, I watched as late model Cadillac slowly approached and flashed the lights, my ride had arrived. Climbing in, I instantly recognized the driver as a MONGOL brother I’d known for years and felt completely at ease.
Within minutes, we pulled up to the back of what looked like some sort of fabrication shop where two MONGOL brothers awaited at the chain link entry gate. As one brother swung it open, the other waved us in. Once inside, I was greeted by a handful of familiar faces. One of the brothers yelled for a prospect; “PROSPECT, GET BROTHER JUNIOR SOMETHING TO DRINK!” Surrounded by drill presses and work tables, the party area not large but sufficient, reeked of burnt oil and ground steel. Mixed in with the low chatter of MONGOL politics amongst brothers, the music of Santana played from a small portable stereo.
“Can I get you something JUNIOR?” The prospect was a brother I knew as BRONSON. “Why the hell are you prospecting?” BRONSON had become a full patched member some years earlier during my term as National President. Looking downward, in embarrassment BRONSON replied; “I fucked up and they took my top rocker.” Whatever BRONSON did to re-prospect was his chapter’s business not mine, so we left it at that.
That night, something strange lingered in the atmosphere, like a sense of unsureness. It reminded me of a time almost 15 years earlier at the Montebello clubhouse as we prepared to go to the Queen Mary.
Engaging in some casual conversation with some high-ranking MONGOLS, some concerns where shared. Like I’ve mentioned earlier, when I was National President I had reached a verbal agreement with certain respected members of the Hells Angels.
That we (the MONGOLS) wouldn’t start any new chapters north of our already existing CEN-CAL Chapter (located in Tulare County) and in turn they (the Hells Angels) wouldn’t start any new chapters south of Tulare County, more specifically Los Angeles and Orange County.
Though there was a long-time rivalry between our two clubs, at the time, me and a few specific Hells Angels (but not necessarily the members of our own clubs) felt more than anything else that our on-going issues had stemmed from the instigation of law enforcement and verbally agreed that as long as our clubs stayed within the promised boundaries, there was no reason we couldn’t peacefully share the State of California. The bottom line was, neither of us really wanted conflict, because in reality, the only ones that were ever truly victorious were law enforcement.
Now, with the MONGOLS sudden growth and under new leadership, a new MONGOL chapter was started in San Jose California (where the Hells Angels were already established) disregarding my prior agreement. Though no incidents had yet occurred, animosity was understandably growing rapidly. The major concern shared that evening was that of security.
With the 2002 Laughlin River Run only two weeks away, like every year before, it was almost a certainty the Hells Angels would also be attending. Was it possible they would use Laughlin to deploy an attack? The concern was, some of our MONGOL brothers had already booked rooms at Harrah’s separating themselves from the majority which had booked at the Riverside Casino leaving them vulnerable. Now I understood why the odd mood lingered in the air, we had backed the Hells Angels into a corner, and like others that evening, I too wondered if they’d use the River Run to fight their way out.
Just by attending this party I was pushing my luck, so after a few beers and some reminiscing I reminded my driver it was best to leave. As we headed for the door, I was suddenly approached by BRONSON.
“Hey JUNIOR, can I have a word in private with you?” Now outside in the rear lot, we found a private corner. The glow of the full moon allowed me to see BRONSON’s face clearly. “I got a bad feeling about Laughlin. “The always fearless look on BRONSON’s face had suddenly changed to that of uneasiness. Having grasped my undivided attention, BRONSON continued; “I don’t wanna go to Laughlin, I’ve been having these bad premonitions.” “What kind of premonitions?” “I know this sounds crazy, but I got this feeling I’m gonna die there.” He was right, it did sound crazy and the thing that puzzled me was, I knew BRONSON well enough to know he was dead serious.
BRONSON was from East L.A. and grew up in the gang life. Even before he joined the MONGOLS, his reputation of being a no-nonsense, taking care of business guy was well known. I remember when he joined the club, I felt confident the MONGOLS had gained an asset and most importantly, a good brother. Whatever BRONSON was feeling, it was real or at least it was to him. He had come to me in trust and looking for support, so that’s exactly what I gave him.
“Look brother, weird feelings are freakin normal, especially when you think you might be going into a potentially hostile situation. I mean shit, I have premonitions all the time. Every time I get on my bike, I worry about gettin killed by a drunk driver.
It’s just your mind playing tricks on you.” He nodded his head in agreement, “Yeah, you’re probably right.” “Okay then, I’ll see ya when ya get back.”
The drive back to the condo seemed a lot longer. Staring speechless out the window, I found myself enthralled in my conversation with BRONSON. “You okay brother?” the driver asked, I replied with a nod.
On Friday evening April 26th, 2002 after returning home from a hard day’s work, an argument broke out between Dee and I, (which was normal). Dee was insistent that we go to the Laughlin River Run. “Why can’t we go? Why can’t we just keep a low profile?” Like always, Dee only cared about herself and showed no concern about what would happen if I were caught there. I just shook my head and went to the bedroom.
For a minute, I entertained the thought but quickly snapped right back to reality. Dee opened the door, “I don’t see why we can’t go if we stay at a different casino.” Again, I began to entertain the thought, maybe we could stay in another casino. Nah, there’s no way I could go to Laughlin and not hang out with the brothers. All it would take would be for them to get one photo, and just like before in 1998 when the jury was out, I’d be screwed, especially still having the same judge and fighting the same case. “WE’RE NOT GOING AND THAT’S FINAL!”
◆◆◆
The phone rings, its Saturday morning April 27th, 2002. My bedside clock reads 8:56 am, who in the hell’s calling me this early? “Hello?” A familiar voice tells me to watch the 9:00 news then hangs up. Grabbing the remote, I click on the T.V…My heart sank as I heard the headline news; “LAUGHLIN BIKER BRAWL LEAVES THREE DEAD AND MULTIPLE INJURIES.”
Just as some feared and most unexpected, the MONGOLS and Hells Angels clashed at Harrah’s casino around 2:30 am on Saturday morning, April 27th, 2002.
Only one MONGOL lost his life that fateful morning R.I.P. ANTHONY BARRERA, a.k.a.
(BRONSON).
CHAPTER 14
The news of the brawl at Harrah’s casino had reached all corners of the globe, leaving a deep cut in the little resort town of Laughlin’s reputation. Not only there, but also leaving a slash in the MONGOLS’s moral. This was the first time the MONGOLS had battled with the Hells Angels since the Queen Mary incident some fourteen years earlier, not to mention losing the life of a brother. Personally until now, I have never commented on this situation.
I was an active MONGOL for over thirty-two years, made Secretary-Treasurer the day I patched in, and over the years have held every possible office in this club, not to mention four terms as National President. It is my opinion the 2002 Harrah’s Laughlin brawl could have easily been avoided. I mean let’s be realistic, when is enough too much? The shit between the MONGOLS and Hells Angels started in the mid 1970’s, not over turf, but who had the right to wear a CALIFORNIA bottom rocker, or at least that’s what we’ve all been led to believe.
This ongoing conflict isn’t about the rocker, it’s about one club trying to dictate what another can do.
The MONGOLS have proved over and over NO-ONE tells them what to do, so why is it still necessary to wanna piss in someone else’s backyard? California is a big freakin state and has been shared by these two major clubs for almost fifty years. Whatever happen to the old (you stay on your side of the fence and I’ll stay on mine?) Brotherhood within the club should be first and foremost on a National President’s agenda. My number one objective as National President was always to keep all my members alive and out of prison, and I’m proud to say, during my four terms; “I successfully did my job.”
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