Jerry Langton Three-Book Bundle

by Jerry Langton

  K-9 knew he was in trouble. In addition to nailing Satan’s Choice for selling pot, hash, cocaine, steroids and counterfeit money, the police also told him they knew about the protection fees and kickbacks he was charging local “adult entertainment” establishments. Not only did they arrest them, they did something far worse—they made the chapter homeless. Records show that ownership of the clubhouse at 269 Lottridge was transferred from Gary Adrian Noble to “Her Majesty the Queen in Right of Canada.”

  With biker crimes frequently making the front page and the failure of their neighbors in Quebec to convict Boucher, the Ontario RCMP, OPP and local police forces from Hamilton, Toronto, Ottawa, Durham, York, Peel, Halton and Thunder Bay formed the Provincial Special Squad, a task force dedicated to sharing resources and information in the fight against biker gangs. A week later, 17 more Satan’s Choice—this time from Toronto—were arrested on a variety of charges.

  Juretta and Davis were convicted of conspiracy on November 9, 1999. K-9 was found guilty of trafficking marijuana and steroids. Dubé hanged himself in his cell while awaiting trial.

  Denis Belleau, one of the founding members of the Rock Machine and a former friend of Boucher’s from the SS, died after taking four shots to his head after leaving a Quebec City restaurant on February 20, 1998. Clearly, putting Mom Boucher behind bars didn’t end the war. About a week later, the charred remains of a human were found hidden in a field in suburban Bromont, Quebec. The corpse was so badly burned that only its size identified it as male at first. Almost three weeks passed before its identity could be determined; it was Tousignant, who had been killed with a bullet to the back of his head and another to his chest before his body was set aflame.

  Catching Boucher was one thing; what to do with him was another. Unwilling to allow him to mix with any prison population, the authorities housed him in the brand-new maximum security wing of Montreal’s Maison Tanguay prison for women. “We didn’t want 200 guys applauding when he showed up, like he’s some kind of hero,” said Réjean Leguard, head of Quebec’s prison guards’ union. There weren’t any guys—or women—either. Alone in the wing, Boucher saw no other inmates. He did see ten officers dedicated entirely to watching him. For Boucher’s safety, guards were only allowed in his cell in pairs and all guard-Boucher interaction was videotaped.

  Those precautions were taken because the guards were, understandably, loath to come in contact with the man who was dedicated to seeing all of them dead or at least too terrorized to do their jobs. And they had little faith in the courts to convict him or to give him an appropriate penalty if convicted. Since beginning his career as a biker, Boucher had been convicted 43 times, usually on weapons charges, and had spent a total of about two years in prison, most of that coming from the aggravated sexual assault conviction he sustained just before he joined the Hells Angels. Réne Domingue, a prosecutor who had been foiled many times in his attempts to put bikers behind bars, summed up their frustrated opinion of the justice system when he said: “Considering the success rates of cases solved against the Hells Angels, I’d say they kill with impunity.”

  The guards’ anger prevented Boucher from getting to court for his March 19 preliminary hearing. No guards would drive him there. “It’s like you’re a father and someone has raped your daughter and then you’re being asked to drive him to court,” Leguard said. “We have a problem with anyone who participates in the murder of a peace officer.” As if pushing them further, Boucher asked for a transfer to Rivière-des-Prairies, the facility the murdered guards had worked in. Despite his own private exercise equipment, TV, VCR, sound system and video game, Boucher complained that keeping him alone in Tanguay was inhumane. His request was denied.

  The guards would get much angrier. Although Gagné was a willing, even enthusiastic witness, there was little he could say about Boucher. He’d received his orders from Tousignant and Fontaine and had committed the murders with them. He could certainly indict them, but while the police were rushing to incriminate and arrest Boucher, they’d gotten away. By the time the trial started, Tousignant was dead and Fontaine, though many believed he’d been executed too, was actually hidden in the Trois-Rivières clubhouse. What little discussion Gagné had had with Boucher on the subject had been oblique and his testimony against him was largely speculative. On November 27, the courthouse was crowded with bikers. During the trial, the courtroom had been full of them. According to the RCMP, bikers paid people $200 for their seats in court.

  Although they never wore their colors in court, it was obvious to other spectators—and the jury—who they were. The courthouse was also full of cops: besides the usual complement, 15 more were hidden in the courtroom next to Boucher’s and Commander Bouchard of the Montreal police brought 20 of his own men. After a closing speech by Judge Jean-Guy Boilard that Crown prosecutor Jacques Dagenais said totally refuted Gagné’s credibility, the jurors returned a not-guilty verdict. Boucher asked if he was free to go. He was. As soon as the shackles snapped off his ankles, he was lifted onto the shoulders of cheering bikers and led from the courthouse. After a terse “no comment” to reporters, he was taken into a waiting van. With hundreds of police watching, Boucher’s driver ran a red light. Nobody stopped them; there was no point. Stadnick’s Nomads philosophy had worked to perfection. Nomad Boucher ordered Hells Angels Tousignant and Fontaine to kill prison guards. They, in turn, hired Rocker Gagné. And when he got caught and squealed, Boucher was insulated. It seemed the Nomads would be impossible to stop.

  Less than a month later, on December 18, Judge Felix Cacchione sat in a Halifax courtroom and berated two RCMP officers. After saying that there was “a deliberate attempt by certain officers to influence the Court” and that “the officers displayed a propensity to change their evidence as the need arose,” he set Dany Kane free. Although he informed on almost everyone he’d ever met, Simard’s testimony didn’t lead to a single conviction other than his own. Back in Montreal, Kane received news that he would become a full-patch Rocker, something he had wanted for years. Patricia, the girlfriend who left him after the Lebrasseur incident, was back with him and they were expecting a child, his fourth, and they bought a large house in suburban St-Luc. With expenses mounting, he went back to work, first collecting debts, then selling steroids and small amounts of cocaine. Seeking even more cash, he also went back to work for the police.

  While Boucher and Kane were still behind bars, the fight against the Rock Machine not only continued, but escalated. On July 28, Rock Machine leader Richard “Bam-Bam” Lagacé left the Ben Weider Health Club near his home in Saint-Lin-des-Laurentides as he had almost every day of his adult life. Before he got to the sidewalk, two masked men shot him five times. The assassins, however, had no getaway plan, so they forced their way into a woman’s home, where one held his gun to her head until she gave them her car keys. They dumped her red Nissan Sentra and the weapons in a cemetery about 16 miles down Boulevard Ste-Sophie. Lagacé’s replacement was Johnny Plescio, one of the representatives the Rock Machine had sent to Europe to meet with the Bandidos. His reign didn’t last long. On September 8, Plescio answered the door at his Laval home and was shot 11 times.

  Later that month, lawns all over Montreal were deluged with leaves and many residents of the West End neighborhoods of Dorval and Pointe Claire called Bo-Pelouse, a landscaping company that also specializes in leaf and snow removal. The following morning, every house that had a Bo-Pelouse sign on its lawn also had a threatening letter stuffed in its mailbox. Written in “joual,” colloquial Quebecois French, and peppered with curses, the letter threatened customers against using the services of Bo-Pelouse. It was signed by the Ontario Hells Angels. Since there weren’t any official Hells Angels in Ontario (Stadnick and Stockford were from the province and lived there but, as Nomads, were part of the Quebec Hells Angels), the police knew it was a scam right away. A rival lawn-care company was simply trying to take advantage of the violence.

  While Boucher escaped conviction for t
he murders of the prison guards, he did spend ten months in Tanguay and was widely regarded as public enemy No. 1 in Montreal. Stadnick, on the other hand, had an almost spotless record. In 1971, he was caught with a small amount of hash; on November 5, 1987, he blew over the blood alcohol limit at a traffic stop outside Hamilton and was fined $750. Just over seven years later he was apprehended for driving 108 km/h (67 miles per hour) in a 100 km/h (62 miles per hour) zone on the 401 just east of Napanee and received a $47.50 ticket. He paid it promptly.

  After his success in Alberta and Winnipeg, things were looking up for Stadnick and the Hells Angels in Ontario. With K-9 and Juretta among their many members in prison, Satan’s Choice posed little threat. Through his connections with the Loners, Stadnick had made serious inroads with the Para-Dice Riders and partied with them often. According to police, they also served as excellent salesmen for drugs couriered in from Montreal. Even the Outlaws, who had once made him a hunted man in his own hometown, didn’t scare him any more.

  Although they had come around to the idea of setting up a puppet gang—the Black Pistons had three chapters in Ontario and did some of the Outlaws’ dirty work—it was too late. Informants recruited years earlier by Sergeant John Harris of the Hamilton Police were paying huge dividends, as the Outlaws were being arrested on a regular basis. And Ontario courts proved tougher than their Quebec counterparts. Those Outlaws who did not receive prison sentences had probation terms that severely limited their ability to commit crimes or even meet with their associates. Richard Williams, president of the Sault Ste. Marie chapter, was arrested for allegedly uttering a death threat in front of a cop. Later that year, Thomas Culliton of the St. Catharines chapter went down for attempted murder after he stabbed his girlfriend in their Fonthill home.

  Even Mario “the Wop” Parente, national and Hamilton chapter president, was put away. He was found guilty of killing local tough guy Jimmy Lewis with a double-barreled shotgun blast to the gut. While awaiting trial in Hamilton jail, Parente was attacked by a fellow prisoner with a knife. Although the other man managed to get Parente on the floor, prison guards broke up the fight before much damage could be done. “He tried to poke his eyes out, but the injuries were minor,” said Hamilton-Wentworth police inspector Dave Bowen. Parente refused medical attention and declined to testify against his assailant.

  At his trial, Parente’s lawyer pointed out that Lewis’s brother was at the scene of the killing and was armed with a handgun. He said that Parente only intended to fight with Lewis, but when he saw the other men and the gun, he knew he had to fire to save his life. Neither Parente nor his lawyer indicated why Parente shot Lewis instead of the armed man, but the excuse managed to get him a surprisingly light sentence—three and a half years. “With Parente out of the picture, the Outlaws were pretty much done in Hamilton,” said Harris. “They didn’t have much reason to keep going.”

  Realistically, there was no effective biker threat in Hamilton any more. But the bikers, powerful as they were, had never run Hamilton anyway. Instead they had acted as runners, dealers and enforcers in what the RCMP called “the most mafia-controlled city in Canada.” The Italian stranglehold on Hamilton eased slightly in May 1997 when godfather John “Johnny Pops” Papalia and his No. 2, Carmen Barillaro, were murdered. “I was one of the first officers in Papalia’s place after he was killed,” said Sgt. Steve Pacey. “All he had was a big-screen TV, a VCR and stacks and stacks of gangster movies; it was so sad—like he never enjoyed the fruits of his labor.” As soon as Papalia was buried, a young mafioso named Pasquale “Pat” Musitano assumed control of the city. Although widely regarded as brutally efficient, Musitano lacked Papalia’s professionalism and humility, and the younger Don’s hubris soon brought him down. Ken Murdock, the man Musitano had paid to murder Papalia and Barillaro, was arrested on extortion charges in the fall of 1998. When the police played a tape of Musitano and his brother, Angelo, mocking the hit man and joking about having him murdered, Murdock gave them up. When the Musitanos were arrested on October 23, it marked the first time in more than 75 years that the city didn’t have a prominent godfather.

  Stadnick swooped in. Police and newspapers reported him riding through Hamilton in full colors, partying with Satan’s Choice in Toronto and meeting with Para-Dice Riders in Niagara Falls. With its proximity to the U.S. border, its huge casino and its image as an anything-goes tourist town, Niagara Falls became a much sought-after prize for bikers no longer afraid of mafia repercussions. When Stadnick showed his face in the area on April 13, 1999, newspapers from Fort Erie to Toronto ran front-page stories about how the Hells Angels were scouting clubs for an eventual takeover.

  While others quibbled that Stadnick’s presence in Southern Ontario was nothing new (Niagara Falls and Toronto are both less than an hour’s drive from Hamilton), they failed to take into account the context—the local biker gangs were in no shape to prevent a Hells Angels invasion—or the nuance—Stadnick had never felt confident enough to ride around Ontario in full colors before the events of 1999. Stadnick was indeed in Southern Ontario scouting bikers and locations suitable for the Hells Angels and there was little to stop him. And nobody was more excited than the bikers, who wanted a chance at the brass ring. “There was a lot of excitement about the Hells Angels—it was like these small-time players got a chance at the big ticket,” said Cal Broeker, an undercover RCMP agent who managed to ride with the Para-Dice Riders at the time. “To them, it was the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  And for Stadnick, it appeared to be his first chance at fulfilling a lifelong goal. On a flight from Montreal to Winnipeg, he told Stéphane Sirois, a veteran Rocker and a good friend, about his ultimate goal. “The Hells Angels only, throughout Canada, with no other biker clubs,” Stadnick said. And then he put his dreams into focus. He wanted the Hells Angels to be so powerful and united in Canada that chapters would be unnecessary—a Hells Angel would be a Hells Angel. Instead of indicating which chapter the member belonged to, the bottom rockers on their jackets would simply read “Canada.”

  But the vacuum of organized crime power in Ontario did not go unnoticed by others. Before the Hells Angels could move, the Rock Machine made a shocking announcement. With the help of the Bandidos, the Rock Machine had finally become what the Hells Angels had mocked them for not being—a motorcycle gang. Starting with nine Toronto Outlaws who were tired of watching their own club fall apart under police pressure, the Rock Machine announced the formation of chapters in Toronto, Kingston and Sarnia, at the narrows of the St. Clair River across from Port Huron, Michigan.

  The irony did not elude Stadnick, but it didn’t please him, either. After a bloody five-year war in Quebec that left more than 160 dead and the Hells Angels soundly despised, the Rock Machine had appeared to be on their knees. Then, with a flourish, they did what Stadnick and the Hells Angels had always wanted to do but never managed: they opened chapters in Ontario, in Toronto yet. Before long, the busy Ontario highways—the 401, the QEW—were the home range of a new set of bikers. Like almost all motorcycle clubs, they wore jackets based on those worn by the Hells Angels. But theirs said “Rock Machine” on the top rocker and the winged skull was replaced by an eagle’s head. And, no matter which chapter its owner belonged to, the bottom rocker simply read “Canada.”

  The surprising turn of events didn’t discourage Stadnick. Quite the opposite. The sudden success of his old rivals on his home turf pushed him back to the old drawing board. A desire to get even, to reverse the fortunes of both clubs, led him to a plan more ambitious than any in biker history.

  He almost didn’t get a chance. While Stadnick was far from the household name that Boucher had become, his successes around the country had led police to believe that he was the real power and intelligence behind the Hells Angels in Canada. It was an astute conclusion. Boucher, for all his bravado and tactical ability, was little more than a soldier (though a flamboyant one) whose task was to subdue Quebec to make it safe for Nomads operations. While h
e was risking his life and freedom on the frontlines in Montreal, Stadnick was flying first-class around the country spending thousands on parties so the club could make millions in drug sales. After much conversation, biker cops around the country came to a unanimous decision—getting Stadnick would cripple, if not stop, the Hells Angels.

  The operation was in its infancy when the Hells Angels held their 22nd anniversary party in Sherbrooke on December 4, 1999. Although officers were under express orders not to stay in the same hotels as bikers, Guy Ouellette, the SQ’s biker expert and media mouthpiece, and his good friend Rick Perrault checked into the Hôtel Delta right in front of at least two dozen bikers. If it was a power move, it failed. Every biker in Quebec knew who Ouellette was. His face showed up on every TV report about bikers and his name was in every newspaper article.

  As he and Perrault ate breakfast in the hotel restaurant, two members of the local Hells Angels puppet gang, the Scorpions, broke into their room and made off with a laptop. Thinking it was Ouellette’s, they were pleased, but when they found out what they really had, they were ecstatic. Perrault was not only the OPP’s top biker intelligence officer at their Kingston base, but he also served as translator between Ontario and Quebec police forces. “Pretty well everything they told us and we told them went through Perrault,” said Sgt. Pacey. With the information from Perrault’s computer, the Scorpions delivered almost everything every cop in Canada knew about every biker in the country. For years, the contents of Perrault’s Dell would come back to haunt the police. In raid after raid, pictures of, and vital information relating to, members and associates of the Rock Machine, Outlaws and other rival groups that had come from Perrault’s computer turned up.