Interviews & Essays
An Interview with William Queen
Q: When you were undercover with the Mongols, did you ever stop "playing the role" and start to identify with the group? How was your sense of self challenged?
A: I found myself becoming the part I was playing from time to time. Especially after I got used to the idea that I could fit in with such a lawless and twisted group of people without actually getting myself killed. The more time I spent with them the more what we think of as "normal" social events I incurred, along with what you and I think of as family time. I even found myself believing that they were, for the most part, just like you and me. Quite often Mongols would treat me like a real brother even to the point that I knew they would put their lives on the line for me. I compared this to my brothers-in-arms at ATF and realized very few of them who would put their lives on the line for me. I became confused, sometimes quite often. This really came to a head with the death of my mother. Not a single ATF employee expressed condolences about my losing her. But Mongol after Mongol told me that they were sorry about my mom and that they loved me. I felt genuinely guilty for what I was doing. And I realized how much of a number I was to ATF. I truly wanted to be a Mongol at that point. I even thought about telling them the truth and backing out of the undercover operation. I was saved from my confusion by the Mongols' propensity for crime and violence. Just when I thought I knew what was really right with the Mongols, they would do something stupid like murder someone or rape some female. I was instantly brought to reality again. But, it would still weigh on me, as you might imagine.
Q: Why is being a 1%er a source of pride for OMG members? Do they choose this path because they thrive on lawlessness, or are they drifters looking to be taken in by a community?
A: OMGs (outlaw motorcycle gangs) don't want to be part of the norm, the mainstream. They don't want to conform and don't care for "The System." For the most part they don't care what the community or society thinks or demands. They take pride in the "Outlaw" part of the 1%er. Laws are made for people like you and me. 1%ers have their own code they live by. Not everyone can be an outlaw. Just like other elite groups, this is what they pride themselves in. The way they see it, they are a unique and elite group of people. So if you can make it (with them), you are somebody.
For the most part 1%ers come from the criminal side of our society. They are already outside the mainstream and quite often find themselves in some type of criminal gang. OMGs are like the ultimate gang. They have a mystique about them. A kind of cream of the criminal crop. They portray power as a group and as individuals. Fear is quite often confused with respect in this world, and the less successful people looking for success quite often see themselves with power if they could be a part of such organizations. OMGs aren't looking for intelligent or educated people. They are looking for the birds of a feather. Once inside, there is a real sense of security. You don't fight a Mongol, you fight the Mongols. Mongol brothers don't care whether you cheat your neighbor or sell drugs. They don't care whether you take a bath or drink too much. They are going to accept you anyway. They'll stand together when other organizations fall apart.
Q: What kind of presence do outlaw motorcycle gangs have today. Are they as large and organized still as they were when you were undercover?
A: OMGs are worldwide. They are bigger today then when I rode. They are as organized and as dangerous as ever.
Q: Do you still ride?
A: I do still ride. I own a 2000 Harley-Davidson Dyna Wide Glide. I'll ride till I can't ride any more.
A Glossary of Terms
1%er -- The 1% symbol is derived from a statement by the AMA (American Motorcycle Association) that 99% of the country's motorcyclists are law-abiding individuals. The 1% symbol has become the mark of the outlaw bike rider. A 1%er patch is worn to indicate this status as a public menace.
Cages -- Cars (OMG protocol is to never wear their colors in cages).
Church -- Meeting time for gang members
Colors -- The official uniform of all outlaw motorcycle gangs; consists of a sleeveless jacket/vest decorated with the club patch on the back, and secret coded patches that detail a member's sexual and criminal exploits. Colors are worn only by male members and are held sacred by outlaw gang members.
Earning patches -- To be "patched in" is to become an official member of an outlaw motorcycle gang.
Laughlin River Run -- The third-largest annual motorcycle event (poor man's Vegas) in the country held in Laughlin (a Colorado River resort town) the third week of April and drawing over 25,000 motorcycle enthusiasts.
Mongols -- An outlaw biker gang named after Genghis Khan's tribe, which conquered most of the known world and earned the reputation for being barbaric.
OMG -- Outlaw motorcycle gang, such as Hell's Angels, Mongols, Warlocks, et al.
Prospect -- A probationary or prospective member of a motorcycle gang.
Punishment ceremony -- Public punishment for violating a tenet of the Mongols' 72-page constitution (a woman was once crucified and left hanging on a tree because she refused to hand over all her money to her Mongol man).
Purple Heart patch -- A patch stitched on the left side of a leather vest that indicates a member has been shot while in combat for the gang.
Riding sixty-six -- Mongol code for traveling armed in civilian clothes, or carrying a firearm while not flying your colors; usually means robbery, extortion, or murder is about to take place.
Skull-and-bones patch -- A patch indicating that a member has committed murder for the gang.
Sleeved out -- A Mongol biker's arms after being tattooed to the point of showing no more unmarked skin.
Tweeker -- Police vernacular for a methamphetamine addict.
Wings -- Emblem worn by 1%ers as a pin or patch attached to the colors. All wing earning must be witnessed.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1
September 1998
Somewhere near Visalia, California
“All right, Billy, how long was your fuckin’ academy?”
Red Dog pressed his ruddy, windburned face three inches from mine. I smelled that thick mix of Budweiser and crank-fueled sleeplessness on his breath. The words he spat felt hotter than the midday Southern California sun. He cocked his head to one side and pushed closer. “I’m askin’ you a fuckin’ question, Billy!”
Red Dog, the national sergeant at arms of the Mongols Motorcycle Club, stood six feet tall, with long, stringy hair and a rust-colored handlebar mustache that drooped below his chin. From his pierced forehead, a silver chain swept down ominously past his left eye. His powerfully muscled arms were sleeved out with a web of prison tattoos, and his right hand clutched a loaded 9-mm Glock semiautomatic. Behind him, six other Mongols—Evel, C.J., Domingo, Diablo, Bobby Loco, and Lucifer—all in various states of drunkenness and methamphetamine highs, were slapping magazines into their Glocks and Berettas. More than one had his Mongol colors decorated with the skull-and-crossbones patch, boldly announcing to the world that he had killed for the club.
Here at the end of a long dirt road, in an abandoned orange grove a 180 miles north of Los Angeles, what had begun as a typical Southern California day—that perfect golden sun beating down on a ribbon of black highway—had quickly turned into my worst nightmare.
For several months now, working deep undercover on assignment for the Department of the Treasury’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms(ATF), I’d been posing as a Mongols “prospect”—a probationary member of the club, a position that allowed me to wear my black leather vest with the lower rocker reading california but not yet the official black-and-white center patch and top rocker that distinguished a full-fledged member.
As a prospect, you’re a slave, the property of the club. You have to do everything a member tells you to do, from hauling drugs and guns to wiping a member’s ass if he orders you to. Some members were good for simple orders like “Prospect, go get me a beer,” or “Light my cigarette,” or “Clean my bike.” But other members, guys like Red Dog, took inordinate pleasure in making a prospect’s life a living hell.
Prospecting inside the Mongols was a dangerous game. According to intel developed by ATF, the Mongols Motorcycle Club had assumed the mantle of the most violent motorcycle gang in America, a tight-knit collective of crazies, unpredictable and unrepentant badasses. With 350 full-patch members, the gang was a small fraction of the size of the Hells Angels, their hated rivals, but the Mongols had wreaked more than their fair share of havoc since they were founded in the early seventies.
Their most significant violent acts in the 1970s and ’80s were committed against the Angels, with whom they fought (and ultimately won) a seventeen-year war. But by the mid-nineties, infused by the ruthless Latino gang mentality of East Los Angeles, the Mongols’ indiscriminate violence spread outside the biker underworld and began to terrorize the general populace of Southern California. When the Mongols frequented mainstream bars and clubs, where people were not as familiar with the gang’s fearsome reputation, the result was a series of vicious assaults, stabbings, and gunfights. In late 1997 the Mongols got into a confrontation in a club in the San Gabriel Valley, just outside of L.A., which resulted in a shoot-out, leaving one man dead. Also in 1997, the Mongols went to two nightclubs in the Los Angeles area and stabbed patrons in plain view of dozens of witnesses, but no one would come forward to testify against them.
Nor was the Mongols’ violence limited to the outside world; even within the ranks of the club, the gang had such a reputation for assaulting its prospects that by the late nineties, the membership was dwindling: No one wanted to join a club if it meant that every day and night he had to worry about taking a savage beat-down. In 1998 they adopted a new national policy: No beating on the prospects. And almost everyone stuck by it, except for Red Dog.
Despite the fact that as national sergeant at arms he was supposed to be enforcing the club’s rules and constitution—yes, the club had a seventy-page constitution—Red Dog was a loose cannon, riding his Harley through life with a “fuck everyone” attitude. For months he was in my face, smashing his heavy fist into my chest, at times uppercutting me as hard as he could. More than once he’d sucker-punched me in the gut, leaving me doubled over, gasping for air, and ready to puke. But I was a prospect, so I gritted my teeth and sucked it up.
That morning we had all hooked up at C.J.’s house, where the dudes drank hard and I did my prospect thing, fetching beer for the patches (as fully inducted members of the club are called), lighting their cigarettes, watching them do line after line of crank and coke. Then when Red Dog figured everyone was drunk and high enough, he gave an abrupt order: “Let’s go shoot.”
This was a Mongols membership requirement: Before any prospect could attain full-patch status in the club, he had to prove that he owned a firearm and was a decent shot. When I got behind the wheel of my bullet-pocked red Mustang, I thought we were heading out to an actual firing range—and so did my ATF backup. We formed a ragged convoy behind Red Dog’s burgundy Monte Carlo as we left the Visalia city limits. I kept glancing in my rearview mirror, checking to see that my backup was still there. But as we got farther and farther into the countryside of vineyards and orange groves, eventually turning down a remote dirt driveway, I realized we had completely lost my backup. I also realized this wasn’t going to be a standard firearms-qualification exercise. There was nothing ATF could do to help me now. If shit went bad, it just went bad. I was alone.
Now, with a collection of new semiautomatic pistols on the hoods of our cars and the loaded magazines clicking into place, the mood in the orange grove suddenly turned dark and twisted. One Mongol brother stood loading rounds into a street-sweeper, a high-capacity, drum-fed semiautomatic 12-gauge shotgun that looks similar to the old Thompson submachine gun from the Prohibition era. An awesome assault weapon, beloved by drug dealers and hard-core gangsters, the street-sweeper has since been banned by the feds. I knew that a gun like that was useless for target shooting; like the tommy gun, a street-sweeper is a pure killing machine.
Without warning, Red Dog was up in my face again, head cocked to one side, hollering crazily—accusing me of being an undercover cop. “How long was your fuckin’ academy, Billy?”
“What are you talkin’ about, Red Dog?”
“You know what I’m talking about, Billy! Who the fuck did you tell you was comin’ up here? Who the fuck did you tell you was gonna be with the Mongols today? Who, Billy?”
“I didn’t tell nobody. Come on, Red, why you acting like this? I didn’t tell nobody I was coming up to Visalia.”
He locked his slate blue eyes on mine and, in torturous silence, stared at me for fifteen seconds. “So you’re saying if I put a bullet in the back of your fuckin’ head right now, ain’t nobody gonna know where to start looking for you? Is that right, Billy?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right, Red Dog.”
He gestured across the dusty, desolate, trash-strewn field, told me to go set up some cans to shoot at. My first thought was of the infamous 1963 Onion Field case, chronicled in Joseph Wambaugh’s bestseller and subsequent movie, in which two young LAPD officers, after stopping a vehicle in Hollywood they suspected had been involved in a series of armed robberies, were kidnapped by a pair of ex-convicts and taken to a remote onion field outside Bakersfield. Officer Ian Campbell was shot dead while Officer Karl Hettinger watched in horror before escaping with his life.
When I turned my back to Red Dog and the other armed Mongols, the icy realization hit me: After the firefights in Vietnam, after twenty-five years in law enforcement, this was the way it ended—I was going to die on a gorgeous Southern California day, by a Mongol bullet, in the middle of a godforsaken, abandoned orange grove somewhere outside Visalia.
I closed my eyes and began to walk, waiting for the bullets to start tearing through my back. I couldn’t even turn to shoot it out: Red Dog and Domingo had made certain that I was the only one without a gun. It was a simple equation: If they’d made me, I was going to die today. I stumbled across the field in my motorcycle boots and suddenly saw an image of my two sons standing tearfully over my open casket. I’d felt similar eerie premonitions during my tour of duty in Vietnam, but here, without question, there was nothing worth dying for.
Suddenly, I heard a loud pop and felt my boot crunching an empty beer can. My knees buckled, but I bent down and picked up the can. I glanced back toward the Mongols and saw them talking in a tight circle instead of pointing their guns and training their sights on me. No, they weren’t going to shoot me, at least not right now . . .
From the Hardcover edition.
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