WHEN RICHARD NIXON RAN FOR PRESIDENT in 1968, he promised to restore American values. Like damned near every other asshole running for that office, he meant the opposite of what he said. What he really meant—and most people understood this and supported it—was that he was going to gut the hippy movement and destroy the filthy, subversive longhairs who were scaring the shit out of the general public. The Vietnam riots, helmet-law protests, and student uprisings motivated government response against what vice president Spiro Agnew labeled the “effete corps of impudent snobs.”
Though they shared little common ideology with the hippies, one-percenters were lumped into the same free-wheeling category as far as law enforcement was concerned, and bikers were a much juicier target.
The government’s philosophy and actions ran directly counter to real American values. The United States had been settled by immigrants seeking freedom, and its people value freedom as the most American of principles. What Nixon set out to do, and in many ways succeeded in doing, was destroying our freedom, with the help of his corrupt Attorney General John Mitchell, who served nineteen months in prison for engineering the infamous burglaries at the Watergate Hotel.
But before Nixon resigned in disgrace and Mitchell was sent to a federal pound-me-up-the-ass prison, the pair managed to unleash law-enforcement agencies across the country in a violent, knee-jerk reaction to the hippy movement. Part of this attack against the counterculture involved equipping law enforcement agencies with the latest and greatest weaponry and surveillance technology. Though they shared little common ideology with the hippies, one-percenters were lumped into the same free-wheeling category as far as law enforcement was concerned, and bikers were a much juicier target. Any competitive edge the one-percenters might have had in earlier years was nullified by the increased scrutiny from enhanced capabilities of law enforcement.
The brothers survived the 1960s and hung onto their freedom, but only by the most tenuous thread; growing government entities spent formidable budgets researching enforcement technology and devious ways to pass legislation to control more segments of the population in increasingly formidable ways.
The government’s philosophy and actions ran directly counter to real American values. The United States had been settled by immigrants seeking freedom, and its people value freedom as the most American of principles.
Protests across the country beat back the initial wave of helmet laws, but NHTSA and the unforgiving Department of Transportation (DOT) didn’t give up their control-freak, budget-expanding extortion tactics. They conjured up the Public Burden Theory and suddenly the black plague of helmet laws slit the throat of freedom once again. Without warning, anyone injured on a motorcycle was branded a tax burden to the public, at least according to the media and much to the chagrin of the freedom-loving motorcyclist population.
The federal government leaned on states to pass helmet laws by threatening to withhold highway funds. The nefarious tactic was successful and forced several states to enact more restrictive legislation.
“They started jacking us up and writing tickets for bullshit reasons, like leaving our keys in the ignitions,” Terry said. “They were looking for a beef and they got it.”
In 1974, Don Pittsley, a member of the Huns MC in Bridgeport, Connecticut, persuaded his congressman, Representative Stewart McKinney, to introduce H.R. 3869 in the U.S. Congress. This bill would end the federal authority to withhold highway funds from states that failed to enact helmet laws. Before 1975 ended, committee chairman Senator Jesse Helms added the language of H.R. 3869 to the 1975 Federal Highway Act. It became known as the “Helms Angel Bill” and on May 5, 1976, President Gerald Ford signed it into law. It was nothing short of miraculous that a tiny number of concerned bikers could affect federal law.
Unfortunately, it didn’t end helmet laws.
The Vagos still lived in the 1960s, at least in their own minds. They refused to accept the increasing restrictions that a growing government presence was pushing on them. They still acted like they lived in a world where a brother could outrun the cops and return to laugh about it. Law enforcement felt the unrelenting pressure from city fathers to deal with unruly one-percenters still roaming the streets unbridled. There was also a growing competitive edge within various law enforcement agencies, and they began arresting bikers almost as a competitive sport.
El Monte was an incorporated city within Los Angeles County, with its own police force, but portions of Duarte, another unincorporated community, were patrolled by LA Sheriffs, and LA City Police controlled other areas. Like football teams, they reviewed and mocked each others’ bad arrest scores.
Cops became more aggressive, initiating busts and outright attacks on Vagos members, such as the out-and-out assault on the Boot Hill Saloon at Peck and Durfee streets in El Monte, a typical local dive with peanut shells scattered on the concrete deck. This happened one particular Los Angeles night under a full moon.
“They started jacking us up and writing tickets for bullshit reasons, like leaving our keys in the ignitions,” Terry said. “They were looking for a beef and they got it.”
Gary Robels, a Hell’s Angel, was with the Vagos that night.
“He tore up his ticket and threw it at the cops,” Terry said. “It took six of them to wrestle Gary into a cop car.”
They kicked Kickback Billy, who was knocked to the ground during the scuffle, and two officers wrestled Terry into a patrol car.
Every weekend it became tougher for Vagos to party openly in the streets, but they remained defiant. Shortly after the Boot Hill incident, several Vagos ran into a group of drunken, off-duty LAPD detectives in the Nashville West bar. While Jinx and Breakdown Billy played pool in a dark corner of the rustic bar, the cops did shooters and bad-mouthed the bikers. Finally around 1:00 a.m. Jinx recognized the impending confrontation. He slipped out of through the back door exit and across the dark parking lot to a phone booth in the gas station across the street to call for biker back-up.
Breakdown Billy and another member confronted the unruly cops and the conflict moved outside into the oil-soaked parking lot, where the undercover cops went to blows with the Vagos. One cop spotted Jinx in the phone booth across the lot and shot him. Another officer in a plain-clothes city-official sedan ran over Breakdown Billy.
At 7:00 a.m., during the investigation, the undercover officers were required to blow into breathalyzers, and they all still reported drunk.
Uniformed officers were called, and the drunken officers from Temple City peeled out. The parking lot swarmed with police cars and emergency vehicles. The bad cops returned, this time in an official capacity.
At 7:00 a.m., during the investigation, the undercover officers were required to blow into breathalyzers, and they all still reported drunk. The case took more than two years to be completed. Jinx, who survived the gunshot wound, was paid handsomely. Terry learned that the Man could be beaten at his own game.
One evening while one of Terry’s stepsisters was working at Denny’s as a waitress, Terry gave her $2,500 in a crumpled brown paper bag.
“Shut up, you fuckin’ punk,” Terry told the cop, who was about his size. “He was the shortest sheriff I had ever seen.”
“Return this to the boss,” Terry said. “We needed some bail money.”
She was on duty, so she shoved the bag deep into a Formica shelf below the cash register. The stiff-shirt boss went ballistic when he discovered the short take for the night.
“What would it take for you guys to go somewhere else for a week so I can sell this place?” Shortly thereafter, behind numerous complaints, late-night fights, loud motorcycles, and trouble with the law, the restaurant closed.
Terry relocated his office to another all-night diner, Sambo’s restaurant in El Monte. On another weekend night, a unit of LAPD special assignment officers surrounded the 24-hour coffee shop and prepared for an assault on the two Vago leaders and any other members of the green team they could find. They dragged Terry, Parts, and Breakdown Billy into the asphalt parking lot, where they beat them with batons and heavy flashlights, splitting Parts’ skull open.
“I was hot,” Terry said. Beaten and bruised, he rode across town to the Billiard Den, a dark pool hall. He ducked inside the late-night hangout for coffee, smokes, and general peace, but he was confronted by a plain-clothes Los Angeles County Sheriff’s deputy. The cop immediately got in the Tramp’s face.
“Shut up, you fuckin’ punk,” Terry told the cop, who was about his size. “He was the shortest sheriff I had ever seen.”
“Look, you puke,” he said to Terry. “We are taking you guys down.”
“Lose the gun and badge, and we can handle this man-to-man,” Terry said. The officer agreed and the two men marched out back and threw blows on the soiled asphalt.
“He had guts,” Terry said. “He kicked my ass.”
“We ended up in another two-year lawsuit over that special unit case,” Terry continued. They ultimately dropped the case and the LA Sheriff dropped all charges.
“Lose the gun and badge, and we can handle this man-to-man,” Terry said. The officer agreed and the two men marched out back of the all-night diner and threw blows.
The tangled web of distrust, hatred, social divisions, and criminal activity on both sides of the law reached a fevered pitch. It was a battle to see who would survive, but as always, the cops played with a marked deck.
As Terry tried to hold his family life together during the constant turmoil, he came to a crossroads with his personal behavior. He didn’t do drugs but he drank with the worst of them. One night playing pool at the Boot Hill, he struck up a game with a giant of a man who played with a vengeance. With each loss, the big man became more incensed. After the third defeat, he snapped a .38 out of a shoulder holster and stuck it in Terry’s face.
“I’m going to blow your fuckin’ head off,” the big bastard spat.
“Not tonight you’re not,” Terry said. He pushed the gun aside and hit him three times with a cue ball. Then several of his brother Vagos jumped into the melee.
Terry was approaching a junction. Life was all about choices. One too many drunken gun battles, knife fights, or wild rides, and the dice would eventually come up snake eyes. He would end up dead or in prison. He was the president of SGV, and his brothers relied on him to make smart, canny, and thoughtful decisions. He watched too many brothers take inebriated falls, die in accidents, or go to jail over stupid shit. He had to have both feet planted on solid turf.