Jerry Langton Three-Book Bundle (50 page)

It looked like the feds had stacked the deck. RICO had been used against the mafia, Weather Underground, Black Panthers and other groups with the desired effect. Bail for Barger was set at $1 million and the judge appointed was Samuel Conti, who had earned the nickname “Hanging Sam” after doling out some pretty harsh punishments in very high-profile cases. The San Francisco courtroom looked like an armed camp. The proceedings were protected by bulletproof glass and guards with shotguns and submachine guns. Anyone entering the room was checked twice for weapons, and belt buckles larger than two inches wide were confiscated.

But the case didn't work out as planned. After eight months and a parade of more than 100 prosecution witnesses, the sides were stalemated. It was clearly established that the members of the Oakland Chapter used and sold all kinds of drugs—Barger himself admitted to selling heroin—and used intimidation and even murder to protect their businesses, but it was not proven that they did so as a group. Since it was the organization that was on trial, not the individuals, Conti, who actually fainted twice from exhaustion during the proceedings, declared a mistrial. Barger's bail was reassessed at $100,000 and he was freed. Charges against him, his wife and 19 other Hells Angels were dropped less than a week later. A few months later, the 11 remaining members were put on trial again and the jury couldn't reach a verdict. In February 1981, the government dropped all charges, in effect declaring that the Hells Angels were not a criminal organization, although it clearly does have criminals among its membership.

RICO, the law that crippled the mafia in the U.S., proved impotent against the Hells Angels. Instead, the feds were punished for their hubris as the bikers emerged as grassroots heroes. “Free Sonny Barger” T-shirts sold well nationwide and Hells Angels membership ballooned.

As always, things were slightly different in Canada. Although the cocaine market had taken off, the reach and membership of the Hells Angels hadn't. Canada was not involved in the Vietnam War and the draft dodgers that came north to avoid it weren't the sort to join or be accepted by the Hells Angels. There were drug-dealing biker gangs all over the country in the early '80s, but the Hells Angels were limited to Montreal. And, although police estimated that Montreal had a bigger cocaine market than any city in North America other than New York and Los Angeles, the Hells Angels weren't cashing in. The members of the Laval chapter had no business sense and preferred to snort cocaine and run up immense debts rather than sell it. The Sorel chapter tried its best, but with its membership full of unpolished, inexperienced and often less-than-bright young men, it hardly made a dent in the huge Montreal drug scene.

It was a perfect time for Stadnick to show up. Smart, likeable, ambitious and tough, he was exactly what the Montreal Hells Angels needed. Even better, as an English speaker from Ontario with, as almost everyone who knows him alleges, wide and successful experience in selling drugs, he had the potential to help the Hells Angels expand into other, more lucrative Canadian markets. On May 26, 1982, not long after he showed up on their doorstep, Stadnick was initiated as a member of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club Montreal South Chapter.

From a social standpoint, he didn't disappoint. “I remember him from those days. He was wild,” said Vincent. “At Sorel's fifth anniversary party [in December 1982], he out-drank, out-fought and out-partied everyone—Wally was the last man standing.”

He may have had an immense capacity for alcohol, but unlike many other Montreal Hells Angels, Stadnick didn't suck the club's profits up his nose. If Stadnick had felt any temptation to acquire a heavy cocaine habit, he could see examples of why he shouldn't all around him. Although the Sorel members didn't have anywhere near the blow problem that their brothers over in Laval had, many members showed signs of overuse—psychosis, random violence and, most prominently, paranoia.

Stadnick saw it first-hand when he and Mailloux went back home for Christmas in 1982. Because Hamilton's drug trade was still largely run by Satan's Choice at the time, it was an Outlaw town and Hells Angels were not welcome. Stadnick was cool. He lay low and kicked back with a few cold ones with friends and family. Mailloux, a heavy coke user, found it harder to settle down. Always known to be a bit suspicious, Mailloux let his paranoia take over his personality. In Hamilton, he was twitchy, nervous and irritable. He carried a .357 Magnum with him wherever he went and he checked every car—even taxis—for explosives before he would enter.

His girlfriend noticed, but she didn't complain. Connie Augustin was also a cocaine user whose hobby had gotten a bit out of control. Thin but shapely, the 24-year-old Augustin was a successful stripper who took her act to different clubs around the area and billed herself as a former “Miss Nude Ontario,” although she never specified when she won the title or who gave it to her. She lived in a nice but modest rented townhouse on Garth Road on the west side of Hamilton Mountain, not far from where Mailloux and Stadnick grew up. She shared it with her four-year-old son, Stewart Hawley, and Mailloux when he was in town. Hawley's father lived in Kitchener and rarely visited.

The rest of the story came out later in court. From Christmas until Valentine's Day, Augustin estimated that she and Mailloux went through about $21,000 worth of cocaine. When the stash he had brought from Montreal ran out, Mailloux went to an old friend for more. Mario D'Alimonte worked as a bouncer for a disco at the Royal Connaught Hotel downtown and had access to all kinds of drugs. When Mailloux and Augustin first showed up on February 17, D'Alimonte joked about how frazzled they looked and suggested they needed a good night's sleep more than another binge. He noticed that Mailloux seemed to tense up after that, so he cut the small talk and gave them what they had come for. The couple then raced back up the mountain to use the coke. After about two hours, Mailloux got up to use the phone. He was screaming obscenities at someone—but Augustin was used to that—and when he hung up, he seemed extremely agitated. He was shaking and freaking out. He had a hard time looking her in the eye for more than an instant. Getting caught up in the coke and the paranoia, she began to get nervous. He told her that D'Alimonte's coke was no good, maybe even dangerous. She started to worry. Then he convinced her that D'Alimonte was hired by the Outlaws to kill him. He tried to flush the rest of the coke down the toilet (Augustin stopped him) and pulled out his gun.

Back downtown, the phone conversation unnerved D'Alimonte so much that he loaded two shotguns and kept them with him wherever he went, even taking them to bed with him.

Mailloux ordered Augustin to turn all the lights out, lock all the doors and pull all the shades. He sat on one of Stewart's tiny stools at the front window, aiming his gun at everyone who walked by. He cocked and almost fired on the one person who walked up the steps to the porch until he recognized her. He screamed for Augustin and she ran to the door, grabbed her friend before she could press the doorbell and pulled her into the house.

Cindy Lee Thompson was a friend of Augustin's from work. Younger, prettier and less angry than Augustin, she made a lot more money. Although the 18-year-old had only been dancing for about six months, she had done well enough to be driving a brand-new Lincoln Continental and living in a bigger house and a better neighborhood than Augustin. Because of her age, she had to get special permission from the Liquor Licensing Board of Ontario for the right to work in an establishment that served alcohol; she even needed a letter of permission from her legal guardian. Although it got her a stripping license, the note's signer has never been identified and his address (56 Sherman Avenue North) was fictitious. Because she wasn't shy about showing off her near-instant wealth, Thompson made few friends among her peers, but she found one in Augustin. They shared clothes, went out drinking and snorted cocaine together.

Without explaining what was going on, Augustin hurried Thompson into the kitchen, where they finished the last of the coke. When they finally started whispering about the situation, Thompson convinced her friend that in the state he was in, Mailloux was a lot more dangerous than any Outlaws could be. She also pointed out that if any other bikers were out there, they were out to get him, not her. Augustin thought about it for a second and made a plan. She tiptoed up the carpeted steps to Stewart's room and carried him down to the kitchen. With the small boy clutched in her arms, she and Thompson ran out the side door and into the front bench seat of her 1975 Buick. But Mailloux heard them and pursued. Just as the ignition fired, he and his gun vaulted into the back seat. Before she could say anything, he pushed the cold, thick barrel of the gun into the back of Augustin's neck and ordered her to drive.

Without asking where, she drove. She stopped at the first red light, Stone Church and Upper James, and made her decision. At that point, Upper James is six lanes wide and at 3:40 a.m., there is virtually no traffic. Augustin figured the best way to save her son's life would be to run. After all, Mailloux didn't have anything against Stewart or Thompson, it was her, his girlfriend, who would have betrayed him by trying to run. It was her he would be after. In a desperate bid to save her son's life, she opened the driver's side door and ran as fast as she could.

She was dead wrong. Mailloux's immediate reaction was to fire. He shot her in the back and the bullet emerged through her right breast. Then he shot both Stewart and Thompson in the backs of their heads.

They both died instantly.

When he looked out the blood-spattered windows, he saw something he didn't expect. Augustin—still alive—was running toward a car stopped on the other side of Upper James. He opened his door and started chasing her, shooting wildly. She had managed to get to John Perrins's car and was desperately pulling on the door handle screaming “he's going to kill me!” Perrins looked over and saw Mailloux storming at his car and reloading his gun. He fired again and Perrins stomped on the accelerator.

Augustin stumbled, got up and ran over to the next car. Kevin Pomeroy worked with Perrins at Dofasco and had been at the same party that night. He was heading home to Mount Hope when he noticed that he'd lost a hubcap. He stopped and looked for it, and when he gave up, got back into the cab of his pickup. Less than a second later, Augustin got in beside him and was screaming. She was trying to tell him what was going on, but he couldn't understand her. At the height of the confusion, he saw Mailloux through the passenger window. He was pulling on the door handle, but Augustin had wisely locked it. She was screaming at Pomeroy to drive, but he was frozen with fear and confusion. He heard a crash and a burning sensation in his chin; then he floored it and his truck fired across the intersection. A block later, he realized he'd been shot in the chin. But he didn't panic. He drove two long blocks south to Rymal Road—the junction locals called Ryckman's Corners—and stopped the truck in the parking lot of Target Variety.

Bill Verrall was behind the counter and he recognized Pomeroy right away. The Target, open 24 hours, was the only late-night stop on the way from Hamilton to Pomeroy's home in Mount Hope and he'd stopped in there many times for cigarettes or Cokes. When Pomeroy came in screaming something about being shot, Verrall thought he was joking. He changed his mind when he saw the blood. He called an ambulance. As he watched Pomeroy bleed, he decided it was smarter not to wait any longer and told his brother Paul, who had been stacking cases of soda, to drive him to the hospital. Pomeroy told them about Augustin, and the three men ran to the truck. They pulled on the doors, but she wouldn't let them in. Pomeroy put his key in the door, but she kept pushing the locks down. After a few frantic minutes of trying, Paul drove Pomeroy to the emergency room at Chedoke-McMaster Hospital. Despite Bill's entreaties, Augustin wouldn't leave the truck until an ambulance arrived. With two bullet holes in her, she collapsed on the way to ICU at Henderson Hospital.

When he saw Pomeroy's pickup drive Augustin away, Mailloux knew he wasn't going to be able to kill her that night and he fled. Without many options, he ran into Dr. William Cornell Park and hid in the bushes. Alerted by Bill Verrall, the Hamilton-Wentworth police sent four officers after him. Following the tips of eyewitnesses, they ran with their guns drawn and searched the park. One took a thorn to the eye and had to turn back, but the others combed through the trees and bushes in near-total darkness. The best of them, Sergeant Charles Bramlett, a former army NCO, spied a movement in a growth of cedars and approached it with his weapon drawn. Less than 100 feet away from each other, Bramlett and Mailloux both had their guns aimed at the other man's head. Without blinking, Bramlett walked toward Mailloux. He didn't take his aim off Mailloux's face, but he didn't fire either. When the two men were less than 20 feet way, Bramlett heard it. “Bang!” Mailloux, out of bullets after having shot at least 30 times that night, kept squeezing the trigger, hoping that somehow the gun would fire. Every time he pulled, he yelled “bang!' as loud as he could. Bramlett called the other officers over and they took Mailloux, shivering and babbling incoherently, back to the station.

The next day, Augustin's house was a very busy place. Neighbors, all of whom have asked to remain anonymous, reported that the place was visited at least three times. But it wasn't the police who were collecting evidence. The first visit was early Friday afternoon. An older woman who lived on the other side of Garth Street said that “two guys in leather jackets drove their motorcycles right onto her front lawn.” The “tough-looking” pair “knocked on the door, looked in the windows, looked all around the house and then took off.” About an hour later, a different neighbor, a man two doors down from the first, saw a long-haired man in a black leather jacket ride up to the house. He parked on the street. He and a blonde woman who was also on the Harley walked up to the door and let themselves in. The witness did not notice if they used keys or not, but he was sure that they didn't knock or use the doorbell. They spent a few minutes inside the house and left.