Jerry Langton Three-Book Bundle (71 page)

That night, December 4, the Hells Angels threw their anniversary party. It wasn't what they had envisioned. When Gagné didn't show—everyone knew he was to get his full patch that night—and the police laid off, it was obvious what had happened. Serge “Pasha” Boutin had been arrested that day and, as soon as he got out on bail, he told Boucher that Boies was definitely talking and that Gagné looked like he was about to break. Boucher assumed as much. He sent Tousignant out to get information. Although he couldn't confirm that Gagné was talking, he did tell his boss that he'd tried repeatedly to contact Hells Angels lawyers and none had responded. Boucher told Tousignant, who was one of two people (the other was Fontaine) who could link him to the murders, to stay in town.

A few hours later, Tousignant called again, complaining that he wasn't getting anywhere with the lawyers. Boucher told him not to worry and to meet him at his house as soon as he could. The moment he hung up the phone, Boucher called Sorel and asked them to send over some tough guys. The police never saw Tousignant alive again.

At Gagné's initial hearing on December 8, Cliche approached his former client, but the biker wouldn't speak to him. During the proceedings, Cliche asked the judge if he could confer with Gagné, but he was rebuffed again. Finally, the police informed Cliche that Gagné no longer desired his services. Fearing the worst, Boucher shut down the Nomads' Rue Bennett headquarters.

On the morning of December 18, moments after Gagné signed his confession, an arrest warrant was issued for Boucher. They knew where to find him. He had been receiving treatment for a tumor in his throat every Thursday and when he was finished, the police arrested him at the front doors of Notre-Dame hospital. He was scheduled for arraignment the next afternoon, but at 9 a.m., a Pontiac Trans-Am crashed through the doors of the courthouse. Although many assumed it was a bomb or an attempt to free Boucher, it was actually just a courthouse janitor who had a grudge against his employers.

Donny Peterson is quite a guy. A former president of the Para-Dice Riders who used to go by the nickname “Sleaze,” Peterson is a definitive example of the way many bikers have tried to clean up their images. He has a successful business, Heavy-Duty Cycles in the east end of Toronto, claims not to smoke or drink, doesn't have a criminal record and even says he used to work as a social worker, although he doesn't say which organization he worked for, and none has claimed him. He gained some notoriety as a columnist writing about motorcycle repair and the Canadian Embassy in Cuba even flew him to Havana to help with a fledgling Harley riders' group there.

But many police officers have different memories of Peterson. “He used to be one of the most badass bikers in Ontario,” said an Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) officer who didn't want to be identified. “He just remade himself and revised his personal history.” Before long, the cleaned-up version of Peterson became a desired guest in Toronto social circles, and he met prominent investor and philanthropist Gareth Seltzer. Like lots of rich guys, Seltzer had bought a Harley.

Although he loved his bike, he didn't like the fact that police stopped him whenever they saw him and made him produce his license, registration and insurance before letting him proceed. Peterson commiserated and the two agreed that the cops were being unfair to bikers. But Seltzer wasn't just any rich guy; he was also chairman of the Empire Club of Canada. When Peterson filed suit against the OPP, Seltzer invited him to speak before the Empire Club, an honor he shared with such luminaries as Ronald Reagan, the Dalai Lama and many Canadian prime ministers. He was welcomed warmly. After a speech in which he joked about being labeled a “bad guy” and finished with “it can be very strange where you end up in life,” Peterson spoke with individual heavyweights like constitutional law expert Peter Hogg and devised a strategy. He eventually lost his case, but gained even more respect in legitimate circles and later served on a provincial government committee that helped develop standards for training mechanics.

While Peterson and the Para-Dice Riders were flying high, things weren't going so well for their rivals in Satan's Choice. With information gleaned from Operation Dismantle, the police raided clubhouses again. One of the bikers they arrested was Jimmy Rich. He wasn't a nice guy—having already amassed a long record of drug possession, trafficking in drugs and stolen goods and even sexual assault—but the police knew he was not a decision maker. Even so, they were surprised at how quickly he gave up his brothers. Using information from Rich, the Hamilton police arrested Johnny K-9, his right-hand man Gary Noble, and four others in connection with a bomb that, exploded at a Sudbury police station on December 15, 1996. At the time, police were mystified by the attack and could determine no motive. Rich told them that it was part of the Hamilton chapter's initiation into Satan's Choice.

According to police, K-9 and Jure “Joey” Juretta traveled north on orders from the Toronto chapter and presented the Sudbury chapter with a gift-wrapped package. Inside the box was a bomb. Sudbury president Michael Dubé had a score to settle. He and Brian Davis, another member from Sudbury, were hosting the prospective Hamilton members at Solid Gold, a local strip joint, when the manager asked them to take off their colors. They refused and were given the boot when police arrived. Dubé swore revenge. A little more than a week later, K-9 and Juretta showed up with the bomb. Davis had just placed it in the trunk of his car and was about to drive it to Solid Gold when Dubé came running out of the clubhouse. He told him about a change in plans. Another member's girlfriend was dancing at Solid Gold and they couldn't risk harming her. He told him to take the bomb to the police station instead. Davis laughed. The cops were the real problem anyway. Although nobody was hurt, the blast blew a big hole in a wall of the station and made it clear someone was out to get the cops in Sudbury.

On the cold, rainy morning of April 16, 1998, the Hamilton police showed up at the Satan's Choice Lottridge Street clubhouse with warrants, a construction crew and the bomb disposal unit. Under proceeds of crime legislation, the government took ownership and the police were anxious to see what was inside. The first thing that went was the grinning devil's head Satan's Choice logo on the front door. To at least one officer's disappointment, a detailed search revealed no bombs, weapons or explosives. Instead, they took possession of the club's pool table, TV, stereo, surveillance equipment and office furniture. “We said we'd monitor them closely, and we have,” said Bruce Elwood, head of the Hamilton-Wentworth police's investigative services. “We'd really like to put them out of business.”

The next day, K-9 walked into the Hamilton Police headquarters on King William Street downtown. Ever the showman, he took a few minutes to joke around with a few cops he knew and to sign a couple of autographs. After a 30-minute meeting with the cops, in which he learned that Rich had switched sides, his mood changed. Storming out of the station, he told a reporter, “I got no fucking comment! No comment! Fuck you!” Surprised, the reporter took a moment to withdraw. Noble stepped between the two men and told the reporter to “beat it.” He did.

K-9 knew he was in trouble. In addition to nailing Satan's Choice for selling pot, hash, cocaine, steroids and counterfeit money, the police also told him they knew about the protection fees and kickbacks he was charging local “adult entertainment” establishments. Not only did they arrest them, they did something far worse—they made the chapter homeless. Records show that ownership of the clubhouse at 269 Lottridge was transferred from Gary Adrian Noble to “Her Majesty the Queen in Right of Canada.”

With biker crimes frequently making the front page and the failure of their neighbors in Quebec to convict Boucher, the Ontario RCMP, OPP and local police forces from Hamilton, Toronto, Ottawa, Durham, York, Peel, Halton and Thunder Bay formed the Provincial Special Squad, a task force dedicated to sharing resources and information in the fight against biker gangs. A week later, 17 more Satan's Choice—this time from Toronto—were arrested on a variety of charges.

Juretta and Davis were convicted of conspiracy on November 9, 1999. K-9 was found guilty of trafficking marijuana and steroids. Dubé hanged himself in his cell while awaiting trial.

Denis Belleau, one of the founding members of the Rock Machine and a former friend of Boucher's from the SS, died after taking four shots to his head after leaving a Quebec City restaurant on February 20, 1998. Clearly, putting Mom Boucher behind bars didn't end the war. About a week later, the charred remains of a human were found hidden in a field in suburban Bromont, Quebec. The corpse was so badly burned that only its size identified it as male at first. Almost three weeks passed before its identity could be determined; it was Tousignant, who had been killed with a bullet to the back of his head and another to his chest before his body was set aflame.

Catching Boucher was one thing; what to do with him was another. Unwilling to allow him to mix with any prison population, the authorities housed him in the brand-new maximum security wing of Montreal's Maison Tanguay prison for women. “We didn't want 200 guys applauding when he showed up, like he's some kind of hero,” said Réjean Leguard, head of Quebec's prison guards' union. There weren't any guys—or women—either. Alone in the wing, Boucher saw no other inmates. He did see ten officers dedicated entirely to watching him. For Boucher's safety, guards were only allowed in his cell in pairs and all guard-Boucher interaction was videotaped.

Those precautions were taken because the guards were, understandably, loath to come in contact with the man who was dedicated to seeing all of them dead or at least too terrorized to do their jobs. And they had little faith in the courts to convict him or to give him an appropriate penalty if convicted. Since beginning his career as a biker, Boucher had been convicted 43 times, usually on weapons charges, and had spent a total of about two years in prison, most of that coming from the aggravated sexual assault conviction he sustained just before he joined the Hells Angels. Réne Domingue, a prosecutor who had been foiled many times in his attempts to put bikers behind bars, summed up their frustrated opinion of the justice system when he said: “Considering the success rates of cases solved against the Hells Angels, I'd say they kill with impunity.”

The guards' anger prevented Boucher from getting to court for his March 19 preliminary hearing. No guards would drive him there. “It's like you're a father and someone has raped your daughter and then you're being asked to drive him to court,” Leguard said. “We have a problem with anyone who participates in the murder of a peace officer.” As if pushing them further, Boucher asked for a transfer to Rivière-des-Prairies, the facility the murdered guards had worked in. Despite his own private exercise equipment, TV, VCR, sound system and video game, Boucher complained that keeping him alone in Tanguay was inhumane. His request was denied.