THE HIGH DESERT WIND WHIPPED the fine sand along Sultana Road in Hesperia, California. Dust devils danced along the rural street lined with half-acre ranch style homes, forty miles south of Barstow, on Interstate 15 aimed at Vegas. The asphalt street was a dried-up river of mud, gouged by recent torrential downpours. One lane was destroyed, much like Terry the Tramp’s rained-out life.

Terry, a forty-year member of the Vagos Motorcycle Club, was the club’s boss and had been the international president for twenty-six years. As he sat in his stark home, the kitchen smelling of cigarette smoke and brewing coffee, he worried about paying the bills.

He was once the boss of the fastest-growing outlaw organization in Southern California. From dawn to dusk he handled club business, built chapters, stood up to some of the baddest one-percenters in the country, flew to wherever members needed him, and rallied the troops when the shit hit the fan. That was his life’s mission until 2010.

Terry wasn’t a big man, barely five-feet, nine-inches tall, narrow of frame with a potbelly that made him look like a renegade Buddha with scraggly, long gray hair, a bald top, and a serious paunch. He smoked one Marlboro after another while gulping strong cups of Folgers medium-roast coffee laced with hazelnut cream powder.

He was once the boss of the fastest-growing outlaw organization in Southern California.

The sixty-two-year-old faced jail time for the first time in his life. With thinning hair and a massive heart attack behind him, he still had fire in his dark green eyes and the one-percenter code etched into his heart.

At one time he ran with the Hollywood elite, married a multimillionaire, and saved her life a couple of times. But as he faced a prison sentence because he couldn’t afford to pay a federal fine, he looked at an empty bank account and worried about his son’s well-being. He raised the boy from the time that the boy’s mother decided she could no longer stand bikers and left.

Terry’s home, clean as a whistle, was decorated in a western motif, including paintings of the West, American Indian artifacts, and prints of John Wayne hanging on the white walls. His well-organized garage held remnants of a shop he owned, operated, and closed, as well as used tools he occasionally sold to pay the mortgage and keep the lights on.

After too many raids on his home, he finally hid all club-related paraphernalia in a far-away storage locker for fear of losing it. The ’59 Panhead he owned for thirty years was stashed in the storage locker alongside his club photos and memorabilia.

At one time his life was harried and constantly on edge, but not in April of 2010. His club had changed and he unknowingly relinquished his position as the international president while he waited outside a downtown Los Angeles federal courthouse for final sentencing after a decade-old indictment came to fruition.

“A federal indictment has no statute of limitations,” Terry said. “They can hang on to an indictment forever.”

The paper accusation was filed in 2001. His home was raided during a statewide sweep in 2006, and after years of searching his tax records, the district attorney finally discovered enough evidence of tax evasion to drag Terry in front of a federal judge.

For forty years he sold motorcycles to bail out brothers, mustered legal teams, prevented wars with other one-percenter clubs, and held chapters together during hard times. As Terry faced this stoic judge in a cold, granite federal courthouse adorned with fluted pilasters in downtown Los Angeles, the magistrate reviewed Terry’s extensive criminal file and looked down at the old outlaw with the long gray Fu Manchu mustache.

“I believe I’m looking at a professional crook,” the judge said.

“I made a deal for no jail time,” Terry said. But in federal court, a judge is not bound by the deals made between the district attorney and the defendant in private chambers. After forty years on the toughest streets in the nation, Terry stood with just one faithful brother, Billy, at his side. His club had turned against him and his support group was gone, but what a ride it had been.

“This is my courtroom, and he’s going to prison,” the judge snapped after reviewing the case. He smacked his gavel against the mahogany sound block to punctuate his ruling.

His club had turned against him, his support group was gone, but what a ride it had been.

What makes a man a leader? What drives him to step up during turbulent times and take the reins of a one-percenter motorcycle club? What gives him the strength to deal with potentially violent situations made even more dangerous by mind-altering drugs used by the men involved? What level of confidence calms a man’s heart while surrounded by men looking for any excuse to kill?

Ultimately, Terry became the international boss of one of the most notorious motorcycle clubs of them all, a club that rocked southern California, spread to several states, and even reached Japan and Mexico.