Jerry Langton Three-Book Bundle

by Jerry Langton

  Goudreau and his girlfriend rode up on his motorcycle and parked out front. His older brother was an Outlaw and he’d always wanted to be one, too. He waited until a few minutes after 1:00 a.m. when Buteau, Lamoureaux and Gilbert emerged. The three friends were laughing and sipping their rum-and-Cokes on the sidewalk. They were clearly enjoying each other’s company and the warm late summer weather. Gilbert lit up a joint and the others started laughing. They scanned the street and didn’t see anything important. “Watch this!” Goudreau told his girlfriend as he leapt off the bike and pulled a .38 from under his jacket. He put two bullets into Buteau’s chest, another in Gilbert’s stomach, one in Lamoureaux’s stomach and another through his scalp. The patrons inside Le Petit Bourg hid under their tables and the girl on stage crawled nude into the men’s washroom. Buteau fell face forward and was dead before he hit the pavement. Gilbert managed to stumble into the bar, leaving a trail of blood before he died clutching a stool. Lamoureaux collapsed on the sidewalk and waited, holding his stomach and rocking, until an ambulance came. He survived. Goudreau hopped on his bike and fled. He got his Outlaws membership the next day.

  With Buteau out of the picture, Sorel had to be rescued from disarray. Réjean “Zig-Zag” Lessard was elected chapter president and Michel “Sky” Langlois took over as national president, overseeing Sorel, Laval and the three isolated and independent Pacific Coast chapters that Buteau had patched over in July.

  Although Langlois had a more impressive title, Lessard had the real power. He got his start with the Maraudeurs, a particularly violent gang from the dying mining town of Asbestos who were notorious for dealing drugs to children, raping girls and selling cars they didn’t own. Because the Maraudeurs often partied with the Popeyes, Lessard had known and trusted Buteau for many years and when the Popeyes became the Hells Angels, Lessard joined.

  A consummate Eastern Townships tough guy, the tattoo-covered Lessard fit right in with the rowdy members of the Laval chapter. Before long he became known as a vicious fighter and a big-time seller and user of huge amounts of cocaine. His excessive drug use caught up to him in the spring of 1983 when he suffered a series of psychotic episodes that culminated in epileptic seizures. He immediately swore off cocaine and found himself rapidly returning to health. As he recovered, he saw how stupid, reckless and violent his friends in Laval could be. They were wasting money and wasting their lives on the white powder when they could be selling it and getting rich. Disgusted with the chapter, he and his friends Luc “Sam” Michaud and Robert “Ti-Maigre” Richard defected to the more businesslike Sorel chapter that summer. A close association with Buteau guaranteed immediate credibility for Lessard and before long he was acting as his Number 2. So when Buteau was assassinated in September, it was hardly surprising that Lessard was chosen to fill his spot.

  His first act as president was stunningly successful. He managed to orchestrate a lavish funeral for Buteau on September 12. So great was Buteau’s reputation that more than 2,000 mourners filed through a small church in Sorel. Some mourners who were wanted by police—most notably West End Gang hitman and enforcer John “Jake the Snake” McLaughlin—paid their respects from a number of rented windowless vans parked outside. After the service, a fleet of almost 200 bikers made the slow 45-mile drive to escort the casket to a Drummondville cemetery. Although many of the bikers came from the U.S. and even the U.K., it was an impressive show of strength that gave the Lessard regime instant credibility.

  Lessard admired Stadnick and the change in leadership did nothing to dull his star. The police who were watching the Sorel chapter noticed that Stadnick would occasionally wear a “Filthy Few” patch on his jacket. The patch means different things to different people. In the ’70s, the Oakland cops noticed that all of the Hells Angels they arrested for murder or suspected of being murderers wore the Filthy Few patch. They made the natural, if presumptuous, assumption that committing a murder was the entry fee into the Filthy Few fraternity. But in his autobiography, Sonny Barger gave a different account. He wrote: “The Filthy Few patch signifies ‘The first to the party and the last to leave’ after someone once said, ‘Man, by the time the last of you leave, you’re fucking filthy,’ so we came up with the name the Filthy Few.” Of course, it would be in Barger’s best interest to deny that the Hells Angels committed and rewarded murder as an organization. And it would have also helped the police to disagree. No matter which account you believe, Stadnick wore the patch.

  A year after Buteau’s death, Lessard was less worried about the Outlaws than he was about his former chapter in Laval. Their random and excessive violence was leading to unnecessary arrests, any of which could lead to dangerous secrets being spilled, and their voracious cocaine use was leading to crippling debts. His plan was to gather both chapters together for an event, so that the guys from Sorel could talk or beat some sense into those from Laval. A memorial service and party commemorating Buteau’s death seemed like the perfect occasion.

  It could have been, but the timing was bad. On September 8, 1984, Pope John Paul II landed at St. John’s, Newfoundland, to be greeted by throngs of faithful and curious Canadians. Easily the most popular pope of the modern era and a genuine worldwide superstar, John Paul II was the first pope ever to visit Canada. He was mobbed everywhere he went. In heavily Catholic places like Newfoundland and Quebec, the local population considered it an event of unparalleled magnitude. Pope John Paul, a man of considerable charm, endeared himself to Canadians by praising them, telling them they had won his heart and referring to Canadian beer as “good, honorable and tasty.”

  Montreal, despite its reputation for cynicism about religious matters, was no different. At 10:26 p.m. on the evening of September 10, the Pope’s train pulled into Montreal’s Windsor Station almost 90 minutes late. The train had been slowed to 35 km/h(22mph) because of the more than 35,000 people who had lined the tracks from Quebec City to Montreal in an effort to get just a glimpse of the man. His plan for the following day was a quiet morning visiting two shrines—the tombs of Brother André and St. Marguerite Bourgeoys—to be followed by an open-air mass at Jarry Park in the afternoon and a massive youth rally at Olympic Stadium. The excitement was palpable; the city was abuzz. Mayor Jean Drapeau, the man who brought the Olympics to the city, called the Pope’s visit “the biggest event in Montreal’s history.” Throughout the city, thousands of people were chanting “JP!” and “Vive il Papa!” At least 350,000 faithful braved the constant rain to see him at Jarry Park and many more got stuck on the way. That day, Montreal traffic, already notorious, became by turns stuck and violently fast.

  It was a bad day to hold the Buteau memorial, but Lessard was adamant. Although other drivers had a habit of getting out of the way when the Hells Angels showed up, the sheer amount of traffic made it nearly impossible for any group to get past Montreal without getting caught in the quagmire. Lessard thought that the Hells Angels could avoid the worst of the traffic by taking rural roads. It worked at first. The motorcade crossed the St. Lawrence and headed to Drummondville on a series of ancient two-lane highways that cut through the red and gold woods, cornfields and cow pastures. Traffic was light, but the poorly paved roads were slippery, as it had been raining lightly but almost constantly since about 10 o’clock the night before. Heading south on Route de Monsignor Parenteau through the tiny farming village of Saint-Pie-de-Guire, some of the riders slowed to take the sharp downhill turn east. Lessard and most of the top members sped right through. About a quarter-mile behind, baby-faced prospect Daniel Matthieu was at the front of a big group of bikers when he saw a battered old Mercury going down Rue St-Michel at a pretty good clip. But he also saw that it was headed for a stop sign, so he twisted his right wrist and accelerated through the intersection.

  Inside the car was an elderly small-parish priest who was desperate to get to Montreal in time for the Jarry Park mass. It promised to be the biggest event of his life and he didn’t want to miss it. Not only had he overslept that morning, but h
e’d been delayed by parishioners who couldn’t make it to the big city and wanted to give him items to be blessed or tell him their sad stories so he could ask the Pope to pray for them. Their delays and outlandish, unrealistic requests had made his already stressful morning almost unbearable. It had been almost 20 years since he had driven to Montreal and he wasn’t sure of the way. So, with a road map on his passenger seat and a prayer, he set off for the city. When he was driving down Rue St-Michel, he was thoroughly lost. Saint-Pie-de-Guire looked like hundreds of other little villages on the South Shore, with nothing to distinguish it other than a name. Whether it was the map, the rain or the stress, he didn’t see the stop sign and he didn’t see the bikers.

  The old Mercury slammed into Matthieu and his bike with such force that Matthieu’s legless body was found almost 100 feet away from the twisted wreckage of the Harley. Stadnick, who was just behind Matthieu, couldn’t stop in time and his bike crumpled as it plowed into the passenger door of the old car. His elongated forks became dislodged and were rammed into the bike’s custom gas tank. The car, the bike and Stadnick were consumed in a massive fireball.

  The rest of the bikers leapt off their bikes in a desperate attempt to help. With the fire enveloping Stadnick still too large to brave, two prospects opened the door of the car and dragged the driver out. About to deal a deadly blow, the biker’s hand was stopped when he saw the priest’s collar. He escaped the accident and the aftermath totally unharmed.

  There was no helping Matthieu, who was lying in pieces. But when they finally managed to pull Stadnick from the flames, they were shocked to see that he was somehow still breathing.

  Chapter 5

  John Harris is so big he’s scary. The 6-foot 6-inch former defensive end for the University of Minnesota and the Hamilton Tiger-Cats is the kind of big and strong you can’t get from steroids. It’s so natural that it seems like he was born that way. Worse yet, he has a look on his face that says he’s not just aware that he can kick your ass, but he’d be more than delighted to do it. Give him a big gun, a big stick, a bulletproof vest and a uniform and he’s a bad guy’s worst nightmare. That’s probably why the Hamilton-Wentworth police made him their biker cop in 1980. “It helps when you’re the biggest guy in the room,” he said. “When you can intimidate them, your job becomes a lot easier.” And he did his job so well, the force was reluctant to remove him. “They told me that nobody should do this job for more than two years—the danger, the stress were too much,” he said, laughing. “That’s why I did it for ten.”

  Harris knew Walter Stadnick from his days as a uniformed officer in the ’70s and didn’t have a very high opinion of him. “He was the kind of guy you’d never notice no matter how hard he tried,” said Harris. “You wouldn’t see him in a crowd if he was naked.” Harris followed Stadnick’s movements and his rise through the Montreal Hells Angels and did his best to remind him of his presence every time the biker was in town. “I’d stop him from time to time, just to let him know I was out there and I was watching him,” said Harris. “He was always co-operative, but never said a word more than he had to—I thought the whole thing was pretty funny, but he never seemed to get it.” Their paths crossed frequently as Harris stopped in the bars, strip joints and other haunts of Stadnick’s. “He was civil enough, but he never had a sense of humor,” said Harris. “One time I said to him: The last time I saw cowboy boots that small, they were on a keychain—and he didn’t react at all; that was Walter.”

  In 1984, Hamilton was still very much an Outlaws city and, after Mailloux imploded and left Stadnick as the only Hells Angel in town, Harris was much more concerned with keeping tabs on Mario “The Wop” Parente and his gang. But in September, he received a call from Kathi Anderson, Stadnick’s common-law wife. Harris had known her for a while and thought she was pretty okay considering who she lived with. She held a day job at a Canada Trust branch downtown, was smart, well-spoken and almost refreshing compared with all the coked-up, air-headed strippers most of the bikers spent their time with. Without a hello, she said, “John, Walter needs your help.”

  The accident that killed Daniel Matthieu had a catastrophic effect on Stadnick. When his gas tank exploded in his face, the heat was so intense that it melted most of his helmet and fused his hands to the grips on his handlebars. When the other bikers tried to pry his blackened, smoldering body from the still-flaming wreckage, they were pretty sure they were carrying a dead man. But when the medevac helicopter arrived, they began to get optimistic.

  Three days later, Stadnick woke from a medically induced coma screaming in pain. He may not have been entirely sure of where he was or why he was there, but the seriousness and gravity of the situation quickly became apparent. His screaming and thrashing soon drew a nurse into his room and she started trying to calm him. Her soothing tones did little to calm him down because he couldn’t understand a word she said. While she was speaking to him in French, he was screaming at her in English and neither had any idea what the other was trying to communicate. She sedated him.

  When visiting hours began the following day, Anderson was there, as she had been since arriving in Montreal after the accident. She knew it was him under the bandages, but had no idea what he would look like when they came off. The doctor, who spoke English, told her that Walter had received third-degree burns over much of his body and that he was lucky to be alive. He’d lost two-and-a-half fingers and the tip of his nose to the flames and was scarred all over his upper body, especially his hands, arms and face. He woke screaming again. Even the most comprehensive pain-management program can do little in the face of third-degree burns; some of Walter’s went all the way to the bone. After Kathi was able to calm him down enough to talk to him, she realized that he couldn’t stay in a hospital where none of the nurses could speak English. No matter what he needed, they just pumped him full of drugs. It was not the place he needed to be.

  Anderson called Réjean “Zig Zag” Lessard, the president of Stadnick’s chapter in Sorel, and told him what was happening. He was eager to help; he told her that the club would pay to move him to Hamilton and even provide some protection. The 13th Tribe, a Halifax-based club prospecting for the Hells Angels, would be given a chance to prove themselves by standing guard outside Stadnick’s room.

  Bikers and cops alike suspected it was Parente who had shot up the bus in Wawa because he saw some Hells Angels on it, and there was little chance he’d let Stadnick recuperate in Hamilton, their shared hometown. “Mario wasn’t the smartest guy in the business, but he had all the nerve,” said Harris. “A lot of guys acted tough, but he was the one who would do everything he promised he’d do.”

  Parente earned his reputation honestly, with incidents like the time he and local tough guy Jimmy Lewis got into a fistfight at Bannister’s, a biker-dominated strip joint in downtown Hamilton. The fight eventually spilled outside, where it was broken up by bouncers and club patrons. Without a word, Parente got on his bike and sped off as Lewis returned to the club. Parente rode to the Outlaws’ Birch Street headquarters, grabbed a shotgun police had just returned to him after it was declared inadmissible as evidence in another case, rode back downtown and shot Lewis dead. He was convicted and served three years.

  The 13th Tribe were a pretty tough bunch of guys who could probably hold off the Outlaws if it came to that, but they could only stand guard during visiting hours. Otherwise, security was lax. Parente or one of his men could easily sneak in and kill Walter, and it wasn’t as if he could defend himself. Desperate, Anderson turned to the only person she thought could protect her husband. She called Harris.

  Hamilton cops regularly earn extra money working as security for concerts and other events. In fact, just a month earlier some officers had come under investigation for improper conduct while working at Flamboro Speedway, a racetrack just outside the city. But this was different; Anderson was talking about hiring police to protect a Hells Angel (in Harris’s eyes, a criminal). “I told her I couldn’t authorize
something like that, and that my first instinct was to say no,” said Harris. “But he is a human being with rights, so I told her I’d ask the chief.”

  Much to Harris’s surprise, Hamilton-Wentworth Police chief Ken Robertson agreed to allow officers guard Stadnick while he was in hospital. His reasoning was that while protecting a Hells Angel would certainly lead to bad press, bringing a full-scale biker war to the city would be far worse. The day before the burned biker was to be moved to the city, Harris met with Anderson and Stadnick’s lawyer, Stephan Frankel, to establish terms.

  Built in 1848, Hamilton General Hospital looks even older. It has since undergone an extensive facelift, but at the time Stadnick was there it had a sinister, industrial revolution-era atmosphere inside and out. Situated on one of the worst sections of Barton Street—just two blocks from the jail—everything about the General belies its reputation as one of the best hospitals in Canada. Its burn unit was and still is particularly well respected.

  Diane was a nurse at the General at the time Stadnick was there and remembers his stay well. “It was crazy; most of the day there were these big, burly bikers outside his room,” she said. “And the rest of the time, it was these big, burly cops—it’s like he was a rock star or something.” There was not much affection between the 13th Tribe and the Hamilton-Wentworth Regional Police. “You could tell the bikers were small-town boys; they weren’t used to cops like we had here in Hamilton,” she said. “They used to taunt and tease the bikers all the time—trying to start a fight, eh?” Despite the best efforts of the police, the bikers couldn’t be persuaded into anything illegal. “After a while, things seemed to calm down and the two sets of guys seemed to at least tolerate each other,” said Diane. “But the cops always referred to Mr. Stadnick as ‘French Fry’ and the bikers always called the cops ‘the Doughnut Gang.’ ”