Under and Alone (28 page)

I kept saying we needed to call Domingo, but Conan shouted that he didn’t want to. He felt like taking care of the guy right where he stood. Ray Gun was cornered, clearly shaking. Conan told him that he was going to kill him. Ray Gun began to plead for his life. The Kid grabbed Conan’s arm and told him that there were too many witnesses in the bar; we needed to drag him out back and kill him there. Ray Gun begged us to let him go.

No civilians tried to intervene; the bar had gone silent. Ray Gun kept pleading and swearing that he would never testify against Domingo. I tried one more time to reason with The Kid and Conan, saying it was important that we at least got Domingo on the phone and asked what he wanted us to do. All my reasoning fell on deaf ears. They were intent on killing Ray Gun at the Sundowner.

Finally, I told The Kid that if we did kill Ray Gun here in the Sundowner, the crime might come right back on Domingo. He’d be the prime suspect in the cops’ eyes, the one guy with a clear-cut motive, and he’d better have an airtight alibi. “Yo, we
really
need to run this past Domingo,” I said again.

The Kid finally eased up. He went to the pay phone and called Domingo. Conan was still intent on kicking the shit out of Ray Gun. Ray Gun was trembling and almost in tears when The Kid returned with Domingo’s instructions. “He said for us to hold him here. He’s coming right over.”

While we held Ray Gun in a corner, I assessed my options. If Domingo ordered us to kill him, the case was over tonight, right here in the Sundowner. There was no way I would let the Mongols murder a witness. I’d have to try to stop it. I could try to reason with Domingo, tell him that everyone in the bar had seen us cornering Ray Gun, and if we killed him, we’d all be going down for murder. If Domingo’s response was irrational, then I’d have to make a stand. I had no gun, no knife, no weapons other than my two fists and my ability to reason with these killers. If it came down to it, I’d give myself up as an ATF agent in the bar in front of everybody, dial 911, and hope that the cops showed up in time to prevent a murder—Ray Gun’s or mine.

Conan stayed in Ray Gun’s face telling him how bad he was going to fuck him up. Ray Gun trembled and begged. Now I began to fear that Conan would lose all impulse control, simply stab Ray Gun to death before Domingo showed up. Ray Gun made a pitiful attempt to escape, trying to push past Conan, but Conan knocked him into the wall.

“Try that shit again and we’ll dust you,” The Kid said.

At last I saw Domingo’s powerful, squat figure in the doorway. The expression in his eyes was homicidal, but I waited, wondering what his decision was going to be, what my play would be in response. Domingo was considerably shorter than Ray Gun. He lunged right into Ray Gun’s face, gritting his teeth, spit flying—“You’ll be lucky if I don’t fuckin’ kill you!”

“Please, Domingo . . .”

Ray Gun kept begging for his life, swearing he would never testify against a Mongol. He said that he would leave town, that he would do anything Domingo said. Domingo wanted to know why he said anything to the police in the first place. Ray Gun’s first response was a denial, and this nearly sent Domingo over the edge. “Your name and your statement’s in the goddamn police report, you fuckin’ idiot!”

Ray Gun stuttered, apologizing, swearing he would make it up to Domingo. “Please let me go, Domingo. Please, I promise I’ll never testify. I swear to God.”

“All right,” Domingo said finally. “But I want you out of town. And if I even hear a murmur that you might testify, you’re a dead man.”

Domingo moved to one side of Ray Gun and told him to get the fuck out of there. Ray Gun didn’t hesitate; he hit the door, leaving his girlfriend behind.

The victim was so badly beaten that he couldn’t identify Domingo, and without Ray Gun’s statement, Domingo’s prosecution couldn’t go forward. But the prosecution didn’t need Ray Gun’s corroborating statement to make the case stick against Rocky. The victim’s ID was enough. When Rocky was extradited from Colorado he found himself up to his ass in indictments and warrants. The State of California had him for assault with a deadly weapon, inflicting serious bodily injury, and robbery. They also had him on grand theft auto. ATF had Rocky for multiple federal drug violations and gun felonies, but in order to protect my UC identity and the integrity of our investigation, we asked the court to seal our indictments until we were prepared to do our final takedown on the Mongols.

I wasn’t looking forward to having to testify against Rocky, but as it turned out, he never went to trial on any of his cases. He decided to work out a plea bargain with both the state and the feds.

I never saw Rocky again. When Ciccone called to tell me that Rocky had been sentenced to ten years on one of his state cases, I didn’t feel great about it. Rocky had always treated me aboveboard and did his best to look out for me when I was taking all that abuse from Red Dog. I knew that he deserved to go to prison for all the criminal activity he’d been involved in. But I also couldn’t forget that had it not been for him, I might well have been stabbed to death in the fight behind the Sundowner. In fact, months later, at his federal sentencing hearing, Rocky’s attorney tried to get him some leniency by telling the judge that Rocky had saved the life a federal agent. I testified that I probably would have been killed if Rocky hadn’t intervened.

Rocky was not the hardened career criminal who typically makes up the membership of an outlaw motorcycle gang. He had held down a legit job as a tree trimmer for the City of Los Angeles for thirteen years and could quite easily have stayed straight for his entire life. But he’d fallen for that 1 percenter mirage, been taken in by the tough-guy mystique of the Mongols, and it had cost him big-time.

It was eleven
A.M.
and I’d just rolled into the South Pacific Motorcycle Shop. As I got off my bike and went inside, I was met by J.R., the hulking prospect who’d helped me carry my Softail Springer up the stairs to my undercover apartment. “Billy, did you hear what happened last night?” J.R. made a slicing motion across his neck.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“We stabbed a dude at Nino’s.”

Nino’s was a popular bar down in Commerce near the Mother Chapter. I’d been down there a few times to meet with Leno Luna.

Evel came out of the back room, taking a break from working on a stolen bike.

“Yeah, Billy, I lost my knife last night,” he said, scowling. “Panhead stuck some dude at Nino’s with it. Then he tossed it. Somebody owes me forty goddamned bucks for that knife!”

This sounded like more than just a routine bar fight. As nonchalantly as possible, I reached down and activated the digital recording feature in the Motorola pager on my belt. J.R. and Evel proceeded to lay it out for me. I listened, nodding, taking careful mental notes for what might be an impending homicide prosecution.

After leaving South Pacific, I called Ciccone as soon as I could and relayed the information about the incident at Nino’s. I told him that not only had the Mongols beaten a civilian, but they claimed to have stabbed him to death. Ciccone said he’d look into it with the Commerce cops. He called me back in less than an hour. “Yeah, Billy,” he said, with a new urgency in his voice. “Get all you can on that stabbing at Nino’s. They’re right. The guy they stabbed died.”

By the fall of 1999, we’d amassed a long list of federal racketeering crimes against the Mongols—drug dealing, illegal gun trafficking, stolen motorcycles, extortions, assaults—but we couldn’t yet make a homicide case. This was frustrating to Ciccone and me—and to the U.S. Attorney’s Office—because we
knew
that the Mongols were responsible for a number of unsolved murders in California. But it really came back to that old truism of police work: It’s not what you know, but what you can prove.

Now I went to work with renewed vigor, eager to get proof of the homicide in Commerce. As best I could, I established the scenario that had unfolded the previous night, November 25, 1999.

It had begun much like the episode with Rocky and Domingo almost killing their victim at The Place—a routine disagreement over a woman, and a jealous husband who had the temerity to stand up to the Mongols’ aggression.

The Mother Chapter had been holding Church at Leno Luna’s house in Commerce. When Church broke up they headed to Nino’s, the nearest bar. Around nine
P.M.
a young woman named Sandra Herrera and her girlfriend decided to stop in at Nino’s for a drink. Although Sandra had seen the Mongols at the bar on several occasions, she didn’t know any of them by name. She had never seen them at their worst and had little insight into their violent nature.

As hard as it is for many people to fathom, there’s something about that tattooed, bad-boy biker image that intrigues certain women—even straight, law-abiding women like Sandra.

Some Mongols rolled into Nino’s lot, parked their bikes, strolled into the bar, and headed straight for the beer. The music was loud, and the presence of a couple of unescorted women gave them a reason to stay and play. Not that it ever meant much to the Mongols whether a woman was escorted or not.

Panhead didn’t have much regard for anyone and needed little provocation to explode into a blur of violence. In his mid-thirties, he sported an array of Mongol tattoos and had the true gangbanger look of East L.A. He often wore a black bandana pulled low over his forehead, so low that he had to cock his head back just to see straight ahead.

Panhead had zeroed in on Sandra and her friend, offering to buy them another round of beer. When they agreed, Pirate, Coyote, and Cowboy joined Panhead at the girls’ table, while Little Dave kicked back and watched his boys circling like a flock of vultures.

The possibility of a Mongol gang bang was looming in the air. The Mongols bought beer for the naive young women, who seemed to enjoy the attention. Then Sandra’s husband, Daniel, walked in.

Daniel Herrera was a forty-two-year-old working-class guy; he and Sandra had a nice little place in Commerce and a couple of kids. He occasionally stopped in at Nino’s to have a beer or two and wind down after work. Though a large man, he wasn’t known as a troublemaker.

Daniel wasn’t looking for a drink this night, and he wasn’t looking for a fight, either. He was just looking for his wife. By this time, however, as far as the Mongols were concerned, Sandra belonged to them.

Daniel was more familiar with the Mongols than Sandra was, and he approached them with caution. In a calm tone of voice, he asked Sandra to come home. His reasonable request hit the Mongols like a brazen insult. He was trying to put an end to their hunt. Everyone waited for Sandra’s response. She told Daniel that she wanted to stay and have another drink with her new friends. The Mongols were more than ready to back her play. “It doesn’t sound like she wants to go home with you,” Panhead said.

Daniel knew better than to tell a Mongol to mind his own business. He ignored Panhead and again looked at Sandra. “You’ve got two kids at home who need dinner, and we need to get out of here.” The Mongols now told Daniel pointedly that perhaps he was the one who needed to get out. He was being offered his last free ticket out, but Daniel stood his ground.

Panhead backed out of the group and hooked up with J.R., who was holding Evel’s eight-inch buck knife. Panhead ordered J.R. to hand over the blade.

Daniel Herrera wouldn’t get a second chance. No one had the power to stop the Mongols now. Daniel had allowed his anger at his wife to get the better of his judgment. “Fuck you then, bitch!” he yelled in her face. “And fuck the Mongols!”

Daniel turned and headed for the door. The blows from fists rained down on him from all directions, but he was still able to make it to the exit. If he could get outside, he might escape with just a few cuts and bruises. He struggled with the Mongols, and he did make it out the door, but the Mongols were now in a frenzy. They kicked and beat Daniel until his face was covered in blood. After a long struggle, he finally managed to get away.

He ran as fast as he could, but the mob of Mongols caught him and resumed the beating. One Mongol fist after another pummeled his face and body until he was nearly unconscious. Then Panhead jumped in and plunged the buck knife deep into his back. The knife pierced his chest; Daniel could no longer fight back. He stumbled a few steps more as blood began to fill his lungs, suffocating him. He fell facedown on the pavement.

In the weeks following Herrera’s murder in Commerce, I moved carefully among the Mongols, constantly recording my conver-sations on digital devices. I managed to get dozens of explicit conversations on tape, implicating Panhead and several other Mongols in the murder. I always played dumb with my questions, or tried to sound like I was filled with genuine outlaw awe. I told Panhead that I admired what he did, that I envied the skull-and-crossbones patch he’d earned by killing for the club. Panhead told me that he did what he had to do. In another conversation, at an L.A. muffler shop, I talked to Panhead about “sticking that dude.” He was careful not to admit the murder outright, though he didn’t deny it.

Finally my interest in the killing got me in hot water with the Mother Chapter. I was at the Easy Rider Convention when several Mongols, including the national sergeant at arms, backed me into a wall and questioned me about why I was talking so much about the murder. They read me the riot act. “Billy, keep your fuckin’ mouth shut about Panhead and the dude at Nino’s. Do you understand?”

But by that time, I’d captured more than enough on the wire. As a result of those taped conversations and my eyewitness testimony, we were confident that when we closed down the investigation we would bring a murder prosecution and get a conviction in the slaying of Daniel Herrera.

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