Big Rick was busted in 2006 on a bullshit weapons charge. He went to prison in Lompoc and was assigned to mentor Terry when he arrived in 2010.

TERRY THE TRAMP WONDERED WHAT WOULD HAPPEN NEXT. It was another time of change within the Vago structure. With Terry sequestered in the high desert on the outskirts of Hesperia, separated both physically and spiritually from day-to-day club activities, political factions festered and grew within the club ranks. New members wanted to imprint their style on the club. As the guaranteed lifelong international president, Terry stood directly in their path. Shifting dynamics flew at Terry like double-aught buckshot from a shotgun.

Deep inside, the Tramp’s psyche was tough as iron. He wanted life to run his way, or be sent down the highway. But without his iron fist enforcing his will at every club function, he no longer held the spark he once did. Suddenly he faced daunting challenges. His leadership role changed with his relocation 75 miles from the heart of the Vago Nation, yet he initially expected total control from a distance.

With Terry sequestered in the high desert on the outskirts of Hesperia, separated both physically and spiritually from day-to-day club activities, political factions festered and grew within club ranks.

All this began to come to a head right around the time Parts was dying. His life-long friend, sister, and wife, Pam, had died in a car accident. If that wasn’t enough to deal with, one day his attorney called regarding an old 2001 federal court case for tax evasion. It was serious; Terry could face jail time.

Throughout Terry’s history with the club, through a quarter century of positive, unblinking leadership, he commanded immense respect from his club brothers. But the club was changing, and the old battleship’s admiral wouldn’t budge from his chain-hardened dock. The more he pounded his Formica counter, the fewer brothers rode way into the desert to listen.

“Terry had fifty leading brothers behind him,” Spike said, “but he wouldn’t budge on some issues.”

For the first time in Terry’s outlaw life, he also faced serious jail time, which also added to leader’s disconnect from the changing club infrastructure. When the cat’s away, the mice will run amok.

“It was just a time of change,” Terry admitted, but he had a tough time accepting a new leadership forum, which drove even more brothers away from him.

Maybe they were justified; maybe not. For the first time in his life as a leader, Terry put himself in a vulnerable position. He was no longer at the helm of the green battleship, waiting each night on the outlaw bridge for members to check in with him at Denny’s or Sambo’s. He relied on loyal brothers in the city to be his eyes, ears, mouth, and fists as he took refuge in his pastoral sanctuary, feeding his pack of eight dogs on the edge of the Mojave Desert.

Plus it looked like Terry could be serving a court-ordered jail stretch because of the federal charge. If Terry was removed from the streets, even for a few months, the current leadership would find itself free to weave its political spell and guide the green machine in their chosen direction, good or bad.

Terry had no resources except for professed brotherhood; he had no defenses against the power struggle being played out within the Vagos’ political elite. Thinking he was on firm ground, Terry pushed back against the forces conspiring against him, but like the Duke—John Wayne—sometimes did, Terry pushed too hard.

Meanwhile, Terry waited for his tax evasion hearing to determine his sentence. During this time his income stream dried up. For years he controlled the club purse strings, but because he was headed for jail time he relinquished the club accounts. Part of the tactic taken by those conspiring against him involved implications of financial impropriety—rumors flew around that he had club money—and blaming him for the club’s financial troubles so he was unable to turn to the club for any monetary backup.

“I was told trusted brothers had my back,” Terry said.

This turned out to be the darkest period of Terry’s life. His brother had died, his health was failing, he’d lost control of the club that had been his life for decades, and he lacked even the funds to pay his tax fine and faced doing jail time on account of it. He didn’t have a spare dime.

But nothing was as clear-cut as it seemed. When the club voted to make Terry the lifelong international president, for a brief moment it seemed that things were turning Terry’s way. But the seeming victory was short-lived.

For the first time in his life, the sixty-three-year-old Terry the Tramp was destined to stand in front of a judge for a sentencing hearing to decide his fate. Terry had other things to worry about, too. One of his close brothers, J.J., was dying of cancer. One morning while Terry awaited sentencing, he made another pot of Folgers coffee and thought about J.J., who had remained a Vago for more than thirty-five years, always a member of the San Gabriel Valley Chapter. A chapter president for a decade, J.J. rode constantly. Terry remembered how a bison once punctured J.J.’s lung while riding in Azusa Canyon.

“He broke his leg so many times,” Terry said, “he always rode with a crutch. One bad leg always hung out in the wind.”

One night at the famous El Monte Denny’s, J.J. went down in the oily parking lot.

“Terry, straighten my leg,” J.J. hollered from the pavement.

His leg was twisted and mangled in leather chaps. Terry called for a prospect to help. Later that night, with a cast on his leg, he returned to ride with his brothers, flying his colors on his denim cut.

He sold motorcycles, gave up a Hollywood studio career, and sold homes to bail brothers out.

Terry pondered the support he had given J.J. and all his other brothers. He thought about the substantial defense funds he arranged for other members. He sold motorcycles, gave up a Hollywood studio career, and sold homes to bail brothers out. He coordinated defense strategies, arranged for witnesses, and defended brothers with everything he had. He left the mother of his child and the love of his life for the club. Now he stood in front of a judge on a low-buck tax-evasion charge. Terry was nearly broke.

On the day he finally was sentenced, he wasn’t completely alone. Billy, one remaining loyal club brother, stood by his side. He didn’t know what the club was up to, and the club didn’t know what Terry faced in the Los Angeles Federal Court when the judge slammed his gavel down.

“Ninety days,” the judge ordered, and closed his file on Terry the Tramp. Just ninety days in a minimum-security facility in Lompoc, California. He also faced an additional three years of probation and a $48,000 fine.

Terry relied on his trusted friend, John, and his son, Terry the Wall, to ensure his home would remain upright during his short prison term. He was forced to sell tools and vehicles to cover his mortgage.

Mule (left) and Sweetbaby Possum (right) from the Victorville charter in 2006. Possum died in Lompoc, California, of a massive heart attack.

To make matters worse, health problems that Terry had been having since the mid-1990s began to get worse. Terry experienced his first heart attack at the age of forty-seven while he was having his way with a beautiful blonde in her second-story Hacienda Heights apartment.

“She kicked my ass,” Terry said. “I rolled over and couldn’t breathe.”

They called 911 and an ambulance hauled Terry’s heart-attacked ass to the hospital, but Terry didn’t take well to confinement in a hospital bed; the next day he was back at his office at Denny’s. One day the bubbly blonde who had been riding Terry like a rented mule when his heart sputtered and quit bopped in the door. “She wanted to be my ol’ lady,” Terry said, “but I wasn’t having any of that.”

A brother jacked her up in the restaurant, dragged her outside and said, “Get out of here. You tried to fuck my brother to death.”

Terry experienced his first heart attack at the age of 47 while he was having his way with a beautiful blonde in her second-story Hacienda Heights apartment. “She kicked my ass,” Terry said. “I rolled over and couldn’t breathe.”

In spite of the heart attack Terry continued to smoke. In 2005 he wasn’t feeling on top of his game so he strolled into the Arcadia general hospital for a check-up. Upon closer investigation, the doctor’s discovered severe blood-flow blockage and induced a coma. Terry wouldn’t pull out of it for thirty days. He had endured another mild heart attack, and he also faced artery disease.

He returned home to Hesperia after being released from the hospital, but collapsed the next day. It was a 100-mile journey from Hesperia to Arcadia, “But they had to take me back to the place that broke me,” Terry said, so he suffered through the long, winding journey down the 15 freeway through the Cajon pass and into the city.

The doctors discovered a bad arterial junction and they immediately installed a stent. He remained in the hospital another fifteen days, but Vago squads secured his hospital room and monitored his progress.

In his current situation he had no brothers watching his back, so he made a point of not letting many people know his health was failing.

“No sign of weakness ever helps,” Terry said. That knowledge didn’t stop Terry from smoking though, and his health continued to falter. One heart valve gave out just as he entered prison.

Terry the Tramp did his time and returned to the club a vindicated, loyal brother, albeit broke. He’s been approached to join other clubs, but he’ll always remain a Vago. Politics will change, brothers will come and go, leaders will stumble, but Terry will always wear green with pride.