.

Fallen Angel is a collaborative effort. It is the combined voices of dozens of police officers, bikers, lawyers, drug dealers, journalists, neighbors, politicians and all kinds of other people who had something to say. For reasons that are obvious, a significant proportion of them would rather I didn’t use their names. They are the people—like Diane the nurse, Bob the cop and Vincent the, to use his own phrase, “wealth redistributor”—who are referred to by first name only and not always their real first name. Others are referred to by no name at all if their connection to the story requires no further context. Of course, some of my sources had agendas to push and some weren’t always honest. There were times when two people would claim the exact opposite of each other with equal stridency. In those cases, I had to find the answer somewhere else or not at all.

Of the people who are named, there were some that I consider truly essential. Sergeant John Harris of the Hamilton Police Service rose above all others. His knowledge of crime in his city and the entire country is extraordinary and he delivers it all in such a wittily matter-of-fact way that I sometimes think he should be the one writing the books. Similarly, his fellow sergeant in Hamilton, Steve Pacey, added a remarkable amount of drama as the man who went face-to-face with the bikers so many times and was the one who exposed so much of the inner workings of the Hells Angels when he searched Stadnick’s home. They may have been given the job of ridding the streets of outlaw bikers, but they both clearly understood that their adversaries—especially Stadnick—were people with rights and dignity and real, sometimes very deep, personalities. If there’s a hero to this story from a law-enforcement perspective, it’s Quebec prosecutor Randall Richmond. A man of courage, conviction and staggering intellect, he stood firm and repeatedly did his job brilliantly under bizarre conditions.

I could not have written much of anything without the people on the street who, through drug sales, drug use or simply hanging out in certain parts of certain cities and towns, gave me a perspective with more depth and color than I could have gotten from police and prosecutors. Thanks go to people like Brian and Mike and others who weren’t entirely sure that being a Hells Angel was all that bad an occupation and kept reminding me that it’s not us against them.

Many thanks also go to the great Leta Potter people and the folks at John Wiley & Sons Canada, especially to Don Loney for the pep talks at The Pour House pub. Thanks also to Eric in the Bronx for his research and perspective, to Mark for his constant guidance and mockery, and to Karen, who read the last few thousand words and shook me from my deeply held opinion that I am the worst writer in the world. And, of course, deepest thanks go to Tizz, Dida and the H-Dogg, the collective reason I do anything.

It’s hard to tell what people think of your book. When the first edition of Fallen Angel came out last March, it received quite a bit of attention. There were some good reviews in some major newspapers (there was also one bad one, but I was told its writer had his own issues on the subject) and sales were much better than expected. It also received a lot of attention on radio and TV, although this could well have been because its release virtually coincided with teh Shedden Massacre—an incident in which eight members of the Bandidos motorcycle gang were executed then dumped in a farmer’s field in southwestern Ontario. The images, particularly the giant white belly of a dead biker hanging out of the back of a Nissan Murano SUV, were everywhere and people wanted to know more. Because of the renewed interest in bikers, I was on TV and radio regularly. While some pretty impressive people, like CTV’s Mutsumi Takahashi and Global’s Robin Gill, had told me they were impressed by the book, just as many interviewers made it clear (some almost proudly) that they hadn’t read it and didn’t ever intend to. Worse yet, I didn’t run into anyone I knew who didn’t make a joke about how I arranged for the Shedden Massacre to boost sales.

At the height of the media interest in bikers, I was killing time in Hamilton between two interviews and wandered into a bookstore in Jackson Square, the big mall downtown. I was curious to see if they had any copies of the book. When I didn’t find any, I asked the clerk. “Oh, we’re sold out of that,” she told me. “And we don’t put it on the shelves anymore—as soon as we put them out, people would steal them—we have to keep them behind the counter.” I’m not sure if I hit my target audience, but it made me strangely proud.

It was a tough book to write in the first place and a project I took with some anxiety. Looking for help and maybe a little inspiration, I called Daniel Sanger. He’d just written Hell’s Witness, an excellent book that follows the career of Dany Kane, the biker informant who played a significant role in the rise and fall of the Hells Angels in Canada, and it was clear he knew what he was talking about. When I told him that Fallen Angel would be in large part about Walter Stadnick, he was mildly surprised. “Great subject matter,” he said. “But you’ve got a lot of work in front of you.”

Indeed I did. By all accounts, Stadnick is an extremely intelligent and capable man who excels at nothing better than keeping out of trouble. In the same period his notorious colleague Maurice “Mom” Boucher was convicted of 43 times, Stadnick received two traffic tickets. Of course he was arrested a couple of times, but could not be convicted until 2004, more than 20 years after he is said to have joined the Hells Angels. Every single one of the police officers, lawyers, politicians and journalists I spoke with were of the same opinion—that Stadnick was the man who built the Canadian Hells Angels from a bunch of cocaine-crazed louts on bikes in Montreal to the biggest, strongest and most efficient crime organization in the country. But none of them knew how or why. They all knew a part of the story and were eager to tell me their little bit. Putting it together, as Sanger told me, would be the hard part.

But Fallen Angel is not a biography of Walter Stadnick. If it was, it wouldn’t do him justice. In Fallen Angel, the story of a remarkably complex and secretive man is just an allegory for the bigger picture. He was smart and charismatic, but he came of age in a time and place where his talents weren’t worth much. When he started gainng money and popularity through being a biker, he knew he’d found his niche. He moved up through the minor leagues to the big time. Although he was tiny by biker standards and couldn’t speak any French, he went to the Hells Angels’ clubhouse in Montreal, and before too long, he was their president. Stadnick traveled the country using charm and persuasion to sign up other men and other clubs, until his gang ruled the bikers from coast to coast.

He then formed a new gang, the Nomads, who told the Hells Angels what to do. He did it all by staying a few steps ahead of the police and staying out of trouble. His story mirrors that of the Hells Angels, who started out small and without direction and quickly gained enough momentum to dominate organized crime in this country.

Fresh from the gang wars in Kingston, Robeson David had seen his share of violence. Using public outrage over a massive tax increase as a ruse, armed gangs of men battled in the streets—raping, looting, burning and shooting with a callous casualness that caused ordinary citizens to create refugee camps in police stations. More than 500 people were murdered in less than two weeks. David, an officer in the Jamaican Defense Force’s SWAT unit, led his men into the worst of the fighting. “It was more like war than police work,” he said, his seriousness and Jamaican accent making him sound distinguished. “But desperate crimes call for desperate measures.” He wasn’t joking.

Despite his experiences on the front lines, even David had to admit his assignment for the morning of March 28, 2001, caused him some anxiety. He was told that he and his men would have to capture and arrest the kingpin of the Canadian Hells Angels. “This isn’t about a bunch of boys with cricket bats anymore,” he said. “This is the Hells Angels, professional killers—we didn’t want to mess with them.” Such was the reputation of the world’s best-known motorcycle gang that an assault rifle-toting SWAT officer would rather face open gang warfare on the mean streets of Kingston than arrest one Angel at a luxury hotel.

The Ritz-Carlton Rose Hall, located just outside of Montego Bay, is a hell of a place. The 5,000-acre beachfront spa and golf club is easily the best hotel on the island. Nestled between verdant hillsides and the turquoise waters of the Caribbean, the beautifully appointed and tastefully decorated Ritz is the only Jamaican resort to earn AAA’s coveted five-diamond rating.

Standing out amid all the luxury was a short man from Canada. Dressed garishly, even among the sea of tourists eager to party on the laid-back islands, he didn’t present an impressive figure. At 5-feet 4-inches, his stout body and short limbs gave him an almost primitive appearance and his shoulder-length hair indicated that his profession probably didn’t take him into an office every day. His face and hands, badly burned in a motorcycle accident 18 years earlier, did little to soften the edges of this hard-looking man. “Yeah, he was scarred up a bit, but that’s not why he was funny-looking,” said Shaun Plank, a hotel employee. “He had tiny, sunken-in eyes and a great big mouth. It made him look nasty—you don’t play with a man who looks like that.”

The Wyndham is a nice place, too. It’s not the Ritz, but at $395 a night for a decent room, it’s out of reach for most hard-working Canadians. A former sugar plantation surrounded by 18 holes on an impeccable golf course, it mainly attracts well-heeled businessmen who like golf and women who’d like to meet them. Stadnick stood out there, too.

About 1,800 miles to the north, Steve Pacey wasn’t sipping margaritas and checking out passing bikinis. If Stadnick looked out of place at a luxury hotel, Pacey stood out even more among the other cops in the Hamilton police force, even when he was with the men and women of the Ontario Provincial Police’s Biker Enforcement Unit. At 6-feet 2-inches and 265 pounds, he was an imposing presence. With his shaved head, wild goatee, diamond stud earring and arms wrapped in tattoos, the man dressed in denim and black leather looked more like a prisoner than a colleague when he was with other cops. But he wasn’t their enemy; he was their secret weapon. He went where the bikers went and, except for the drugs and violence, he did what the bikers did. To a newbie, he looked like another biker. To the bikers, he was close enough that they got sloppy around him after a few too many cold ones. Pacey knew more about Hamilton’s bikers than anyone else. And he knew that, although most cops associate Hamilton with the traditional Italian Mafia, it was the bikers who called the Steel City home who really ran things in Canada, and it was Stadnick who called the shots for many of the bikers. “There are traditional organized crime members in this city who are very active,” he said in 2001. “But in terms of sheer volume, Walter’s influence spreads way beyond Hamilton.”

At this point, it was pretty clear to everyone that Stadnick was not exactly Ned Flanders. Despite the fact that there exists no record of Stadnick ever holding a job, he lived pretty high on the hog. Unlike the more commonplace breed of nouveaux riches who expose themselves to scrutiny by buying an ostentatious mansion, Stadnick played it cool. He bought a small and comfortable house near the ridge of the 300-foot hill they call “the mountain” in Hamilton. Assessed for insurance purposes for an atrociously low $156,000, Stadnick’s Cloverhill Road residence was an opulent, if not entirely tasteful, monument to the biker lifestyle.

From the street, the only indication that this wasn’t an ordinary house was the oversized Canadian flag and the mailbox painted in the bright red and white of the Hells Angels. A few steps out back revealed that work had begun on an in-ground pool. Overlooking it was a recently finished second-floor balcony. A peek in the first floor windows would reveal a sumptuous glass, black marble and gold plate motif worth well more than the estimated value of the entire house. Climb up to the second floor and you’d see an office with a PC, scanner, fax and—what every legitimate businessman needs—a paper shredder. Next door was a bathroom featuring a new whirlpool with a wall-mounted TV. Beyond that was the red-and-white master bedroom with an expensive four-poster bed and a his-and-hers closet filled with custom-fitted Armani suits and enough women’s shoes to make Imelda Marcos envious. Parked out front on most days were a late-model Chrysler luxury car, a Blazer SUV and, perhaps most revealing, a brand-new Jaguar with Quebec plates. The beloved Harleys lived in the garage. Stadnick’s attempt to blend in didn’t fool the cops. As one Hamilton officer mused aloud: “How can you have a guy like Stadnick—who’s never had a job in his life—living in a gorgeous little house, with a place in Quebec, a place in Winnipeg—traveling all over the world wearing Armani suits?”

While the logical answer is crime, the legal answer is more complex. Or at least more elusive. When asked what his client did for a living, Stadnick’s high-priced lawyer Stephan Frankel said: “I don’t know, I really don’t know.” After a long, uncomfortable silence, he said: “It wasn’t something that would generally come up; it wasn’t really something that I needed to know . . . I don’t know if it’s strange necessarily—Walter is a really private person.” Too private, apparently, to tell his lawyer what he does for a living.

Though his lawyer was oblivious, the police weren’t. Although he was opaque in his business dealings, Stadnick wore his Hells Angels colours proudly, and always seemed to be at least on the periphery of trouble. A paid informant embedded close to the Hells Angels elite Nomads Chapter told his Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) handlers that Stadnick was not only deeply involved in the lucrative Southern Ontario drug trade, but that he was also making strategic alliances with biker gangs in Ontario and Western Canada in an effort to win them over from the Hells Angels’ rivals, the Outlaws. Although cops in urban centers like Hamilton may view drug dealing as an unavoidable part of urban life—throw a Hells Angel in jail and someone else will take his place—the rumblings of a potential gang war were particularly worrisome. At least 157 people were murdered in the Hells Angels-Rock Machine conflict in Quebec and, when the Hells Angels rose from the battle victorious, they turned their homicidal attention to the government, killing two prison guards and threatening the lives of every guard, cop, prosecutor and judge in the province. Quebec was teetering on the edge of a Colombia-style government-gangster stalemate. “No, we don’t need that here in Ontario,” said another Hamilton cop.

Farther north in Montreal it was bitterly cold, one of those days that makes you wonder if winter will ever end. At 4:00 a.m., RCMP Sergeant Tom O’Neill arrived at the headquarters of the Sûreté du Québec (SQ) with armloads of coffee and doughnuts. He wasn’t complaining about the cold or the early start or the long day he knew he had ahead of him—if anything, he was eager to get started. As NCO of Operation Printemps (Springtime) 2001, it was his job to coordinate a joint police task force consisting of 2,000 officers poised to pounce on 142 bikers.

Of them, two stood out in particular. Stadnick and Donald “Pup” Stockford were friends who grew up on the rough-and-tumble streets of Hamilton and, despite starting with no French skills and a pronounced size disadvantage, somehow managed to join the traditionally francophone Canadian arm of the Hells Angels; Stockford became president and Stadnick’s right-hand man. At the top of the Canadian Hells Angels are the Nomads, an elite chapter of the Hells Angels founded, sources say, by Stadnick himself.

Stadnick and Stockford, along with such Montreal-based luminaries as Maurice “Mom” Boucher and David “Wolf ” Carroll were among the Nomads management team who controlled not only the other Hells Angels, but associated gangs as well. A secret RCMP report read: “They’ll have about a dozen members and will control all of Quebec as their territory. They’ll put pressure on clubs that aren’t doing a good job selling drugs.” “Pressure” in Hells Angels’ terms usually means violence. According to police, Stadnick’s primary mandate was to recruit established biker gangs from Ontario and Western Canada into the Hells Angels family by any means necessary.

In densely populated areas, and Ontario is no exception, the sex and drug trades are controlled by a number of organized crime groups. In approximate order of influence, they include the Italian and Irish mafias at the top, the biker gangs, Asian gangs, Jamaican gangs, and at the bottom the independent operators and other bottom-feeders. All of them live in a sort of uneasy tolerance of one another, with only the occasional head kicked in to maintain order. That hierarchy, as the authorities in Quebec found out, gets blown away when the Hells Angels arrive. Like a cunning retailer intent on eliminating the competition, the Hells Angels use their name and reputation, combined with smart marketing like cut-rate prices, free samples and other incentives to establish themselves as the dominant, if not only, dog in the yard. Unlike the Wal-Marts of the world, though, the Hells Angels reserve the right to kill whoever stands in their way. Competition becomes fierce; rival biker gangs often increase their activity in an attempt to show the Hells Angels they are worthy of membership or that they are powerful enough to remain independent. The Hells Angels can patch them in (give them membership), keep them as vassals or try to eliminate them. No matter which happens, the level of street crime and violence escalates.

Before the RCMP, the Sûreté du Québec (SQ) and individual police forces in Quebec started rounding up bikers in unprecedented numbers, O’Neill wanted to take down Stadnick and Stockford. On March 25, he set up a conference call with Pacey and a crew of eager young Hamilton police officers, telling them for the first time what the RCMP knew about the Hells Angels and particularly Stadnick and Stockford. The excitement was palpable. The Hamilton cops had been trying to bring down Stadnick for years, but the most they’d been able to nail him with were traffic tickets. “I could hear a lull,” O’Neill said. “They’d obviously been trying to get him for years.”

Stockford was easy. Ancaster is considered by many to be the nicest, certainly the most bucolic, of Hamilton’s suburbs. Up on the mountain and far away from the smoke-belching factories of the city’s North and East Ends, Ancaster is quiet, relaxed and safely removed from the squalor and poverty of inner-city Hamilton. When you see a police car up here you figure some kids got hold of some beer or something equally innocent. On the morning of March 26, however, a heavily armed SWAT team, complete with body armor and assault rifles, descended upon the Stockford residence. Taking no chances, the cops called to Stockford from a truck-mounted loudspeaker, informing him that they had a warrant for his arrest and a warrant to search his home. Almost immediately, Stockford came out of the house with his hands on the back of his head. Shivering in just jeans and a T-shirt, he was immediately whisked into a police car and taken to Hamilton for questioning. Inside, the cops found a treasure trove of evidence—everything from laminated index cards with the names, addresses and phone numbers of Nomads members, prospects and hangarounds to minutes of gang meetings to a tax return for Nomads Quebec Inc., and even a list of the bikers’ favorite restaurants in Montreal. The police were surprised by how much incriminating material they carted away. For all his skill as an organizer, Stockford made a pretty lousy gangster.

Stadnick proved more difficult. Cloverhill Road is two blocks long and surrounded on two sides by a 90-degree turn in the forested cliff that separates Upper Hamilton from Lower Hamilton. It is about as isolated as you can get in a major city. That facade of calm was shattered on the morning of March 26 when eager police came racing down the street. Suddenly, they stopped in front of Stadnick’s unassuming red brick house. There seemed to be some confusion. “Nothing happened for a few minutes,” said one eyewitness. “Then a news van—with all the dishes on top—arrived and it all started going down.” The police started blaring orders at Stadnick’s house. Other than the light rustling of neighbors stirring and the white noise of police radios, there was silence. Again they pleaded for Stadnick to come out without violence. Nothing. Suddenly six large officers in full body armor came running out of a truck with what looked to one witness like “a log with handles.” Two hits and the door was down. Two officers with their backs to the house each threw something into the opening where the door had been. Immediately there was a sound like twin thunderclaps and the inside of the house lit up “like it was daylight inside.” Still nothing moved. One of the men who had thrown in a percussion grenade shouted “GO! GO! GO!” while windmilling his left arm. Armored men with assault rifles and shotguns stormed the house. Despite the fact that 24 hours of surveillance had shown no movement in or around the house, the police seemed surprised to find nobody at home.

Perhaps disappointed that their quarry had eluded them, they tore the place apart. After the raid, Stadnick’s common-law wife, Kathi Anderson, complained that the house had suffered extensive damage from the grenades and that, even years later, the police were holding on to her computer and her “printer, monitor, keyboard, mouse, scanner and CDs and laptop.” “They took my fax machine, my telephone, every VHS tape I owned, pictures right off the wall, dozens of photo albums . . . ” and more. Complaining that the police had shown perhaps more zeal than efficiency, Anderson went on to say, “They also smashed the front and side doors in (although they are within 8 to 10 feet of each other) and left my home unwatched and open for five days.” She also pointed out that in the Quebec arrests, police knocked on the front door.

It took the RCMP’s Jamaica liaison officer, Richard Sauvé, six hours to drive from his office in Kingston to the Wyndham just outside Montego Bay. O’Neill’s luck held. Sauvé spotted Stadnick in minutes. But then, there weren’t too many longhaired, 5-foot 4-inch vacationers covered in tattoos and burn scars. “I saw him—he’s sitting by the pool,” Sauvé told O’Neill. “He’s with his girlfriend.”

On the morning of March 28, the same day the Quebec arrests went down, Stadnick and Anderson moved from the Wyndham to the Ritz. The papers at the time, especially the vulgar Montreal tabloids, claimed that the couple had heard about the first few Quebec arrests by telephone or e-mail and were on the run, but Anderson says that they had dropped by the Ritz—the hotel they originally tried to book—the night before and asked if any rooms were available. When one was, they switched.

After settling in at the Ritz, the couple decided to relax by the pool. Stadnick knew instinctively from the sound of boots on pavement and the gasps of the vacationers that something was going down. When he looked up, he was staring at the hole in the end of an assault rifle. There were many of them, in fact, and they were all pointed at him and his wife. He said nothing. “Mr. Walter Stadnick?” asked a tall man with a prominently decorated uniform, even though it was clear he knew whom he was talking to. Walter nodded.

Sauvé stepped forward from behind the SWAT team and identified himself. “Mr. Stadnick, you are under arrest for 13 counts of murder, three counts of attempted murder, one count of conspiracy to commit murder, two counts of narcotics trafficking and two counts of attempting to smuggle narcotics.” Stadnick went peacefully.

After a night in a tiny Montego Bay cell Anderson described as a “hell hole,” Stadnick was transported to Jamaica’s National Remand Centre in Kingston. Surrounded by razor wire and a 24-hour armed guard and obliged to use a communal toilet bucket, Stadnick waited patiently for his time in court. On April 2, he was led into Kingston’s Half-Way-Tree Courthouse, where he confidently told resident magistrate Martin Gayle that he had no idea why the charges were being leveled against him and that he would readily waive his right to an extradition process so he could fight them. Granted.

The paperwork wouldn’t be completed until April 10. When O’Neill and a partner from the Montreal Police arrived in Kingston, they were shocked at the atrocious conditions at the Remand Centre. Describing the scene as “a bit like [the 1978 prison movie] Midnight Express,” O’Neill thought he’d find Stadnick desperate to get back to the relatively posh conditions of a Canadian jail. He was surprised by what he found. Sitting on the floor, chatting and laughing with some friends, Stadnick made O’Neill wait until he was finished his sentence before acknowledging him. Unruffled, O’Neill decided to play with Stadnick a bit. “So, Walter, how’d you like to stay here for a couple more weeks?” he asked. “It can be arranged.”

Later, O’Neill admitted that he thought that the only white prisoner—and a short and funny-looking one at that—would have a tough time surviving in a Jamaican jail. He couldn’t have been more wrong. “I thought they’d be frying him up,” he said. “But he made some friends in there and left real cocky.” As the two Canadian cops, aided by a phalanx of Jamaican guards with submachine guns, escorted the diminutive biker leader out of his cell, they were chilled by what they heard. Hoots, hollers, whistles and applause came from what seemed like every cell. “Yo, Walter!” they yelled. “We’re with you, man!” Stadnick loved it.

Joanne Carswell saw all her beliefs die in one day. At an event where she expected to celebrate the beauty of peace, togetherness, friendship and tolerance, she was instead a witness to a repulsive display of the strong preying on the weak. She saw a terrifying group of large armed men terrorizing young people, taking their money, assaulting them and generally destroying any idea she may have had about the fellowship of humanity. Before the day was over, Joanne would watch one of that group of men plunge a knife deep into the throat of a kid and see that kid crumple to the ground. She would witness a murder.

It was December 6, 1969. Three and a half months earlier, Woodstock, despite all its failings, had given young people all over the world hope that their ideals could work in real life. Originally intended to be held in Woodstock, a small town in upstate New York, the festival was actually realized 38 miles away on Max Yasgur’s dairy farm in Bethel after officials in Woodstock and other towns turned it down. Hastily planned for up to 50,000 people, 400,000 arrived. The food, water, sanitary and security systems were immediately and absolutely overwhelmed. Almost nobody paid to get in—the promoters actually lost money until they started selling records a year later. Most people were forced to park at least 15 miles away, there were shortages of everything and people relieved themselves anywhere they felt like, leaving Yasgur’s formerly idyllic farm a devastated, litter-clogged mud pit with all 450 of his cows “set free.” Doctors, medicine, water and food had to be helicoptered in at taxpayers’ expense. But, to the young people of the time, these were minor quibbles. They pulled it off. Woodstock worked. The hippies got together—almost a half million of them—and had a great time. Although at least three people died at Woodstock, none died as the result of violence. Let the establishment worry about such boring details as toilets, food and water. The people had put together the biggest party in history and proved that the ideals of peace, love and brotherhood had to be recognized.

One group of young men clearly recognized the importance of Woodstock. The Rolling Stones, the reigning kings of popular music since the decline of the Beatles, were conspicuous by their absence at the historic festival. According to rock mythology, author Ken Kesey came up with the idea of “Woodstock West” and presented it to a number of well-known bands. Eager to take advantage of the ground-swell of enthusiasm for mega-parties, the Rolling Stones decided to end their 1969 tour with a bang.

Recruiting Woodstock alumni Santana, the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, the Flying Burrito Brothers and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, the Rolling Stones and the promoters managed to get everything together in just 110 days. As with their colleagues back East, the promoters were rebuffed by a number of potential venues. Frustrated, the band and their promoters turned to Rolling Stone magazine publisher Jann Wenner and he sent them to Melvin Belli, a lawyer famous for protecting the interests of California’s conservative elite. A little more than 24 hours before the show, he hammered out a deal with Dick Carter of the Altamont Speedway. About as far away from San Francisco as Woodstock was from New York City, the sleepy, nearly bankrupt racetrack was just outside the dusty San Joaquin Valley town of Tracy.

Most of the same problems that plagued Woodstock—shortages of water, food and toilets—hit Altamont as well, and drug use was even more rampant. According to author Robert Sam Anson, the Hells Angels sold thousands of hits of LSD laced with methamphetamines. That potentially deadly mix led to so many painful bad trips and psychotic episodes that the festival’s first aid centers were swamped well before the first band went on. “There didn’t seem to be any cops around, so people were doing all kinds of illegal drugs pretty openly,” Joanne Carswell said. “It looked like the Hells Angels were in charge, and I don’t think anybody thought they’d mind if we got high—hell, they all looked stoned.”

Stoned or not, the Hells Angels were a formidable force. And as tensions mounted they reacted the only way they knew how. According to rock historian Philip Norman: “By halfway through Santana’s set, swirls and flurries of violence, at first almost too quick for the eye to follow, were happening all along the stage—from there to its scaffolded corners where massed Hells Angels confronted the ordinary public.” Although Altamont owner Dick Carter may have hired lots of cops and security guards, none could be seen anywhere near the stage once the concert had begun and the Hells Angels were holding sway.

The crescendo of violence at Altamont may have become a long-forgotten item of rock lore if not for the fact that a team of cameramen was shooting a documentary about the Rolling Stones tour. Called Gimme Shelter, the film shows a shocking amount of violence at Altamont, virtually all of it performed by the Hells Angels. Although the Hells Angels managed to intimidate most of the crew into not shooting, Stephen Lighthill came up with an ingenious and courageous way to record the event. Since his camera was mounted on a shoulder brace, he simply kept it running and pretended it was turned off. “Hells Angels were hassling me all day and telling me to stop shooting,” he said. “All the stuff with people being beaten on with pool cues was shot by me, and as long as I wasn’t looking at what the camera and the microphone were pointing at, nobody was the wiser.”

The Angels, conspicuous by their leather jackets and the club’s winged death’s-head logo, were armed with sawed-off pool cues reinforced with lead. Although not quite a deadly weapon, a whack in the head with one would leave its victim a crumpled, helpless mess. In an attempt to calm the Hells Angels, promoters moved cases and cases of beer to their positions along the edge of the stage. The bikers began hurling full cans at fans they decided were out of line. Although it was later reported that the Angels were altruistically tossing beer into the crowd, they can be clearly seen in Gimme Shelter whipping full steel cans at kids in the crowd. One is said to have fractured a girl’s skull.

Things got significantly worse during Jefferson Airplane’s set and the fighting became the focus of more attention than the music. Frustrated, Jefferson Airplane singer Marty Balin told one of the Hells Angels, who was severely beating a young man, to stop. One of the Hells Angels on stage took offense at Balin’s indiscretion and punched him in the face, knocking him out. The Grateful Dead and their entourage assessed the scene as too violent for them, packed up and left without playing.

The Rolling Stones, as headliners, didn’t have the option of chickening out. They knew that 400,000 amped-up, pissed-off kids would riot. They went on and, to their credit, began a pretty good set. But a great many people in the crowd, especially those nearest the ridiculously accessible two-foot-high stage, had things on their mind other than music. Fights broke out all over. Fists, threats and even dirty looks were met with a smash in the face with a pool cue. Although Jagger pleaded with the crowd to “cool down,” things seemed to ramp up as the Stones played their controversial hit “Sympathy for the Devil.”

After that, things got weird. As the Stones finished their next song, “Under My Thumb,” a young black man approached the stage. In Gimme Shelter it’s clear he has something in his hand, but it’s not clear what it is. Suddenly, he’s confronted by a Hells Angel. A scuffle ensues and the two are almost instantly surrounded by a group of bikers. There’s a flash of metal as a knife is plunged repeatedly into the throat of Meredith Hunter.

Carswell saw the whole thing. “They surrounded him and stabbed him over and over again,” she said. “He wasn’t dead when he was lying there, but he was clearly dying.” According to Carswell, some of the kids in the crowd tried to help the poor young man convulsing in a pool of his own blood, but the bikers kept them away. “I heard one of them say, ‘He’s dying anyway’ and another threatened some kids who were trying to help him,” she said. “He told them, ‘He deserves to die.’ ”

The police arrested 24-year-old ex-convict Alan Passaro, the biker who killed Hunter. Melvin Belli, recruited by the Hells Angels, got some of the film from the rough cuts of Gimme Shelter and showed it to the cops. He convinced them that the object in Hunter’s hand was actually a gun. After a while, they agreed, but pointed out that the self-defense excuse would be no good unless the gun was found. Belli quickly made calls to “every lawyer in the area” to track down Ralph “Sonny” Barger, president of the Oakland chapter of the Hells Angels. The next day, Barger brought him a shoebox. Inside there was a gun that Barger claimed the Hells Angels had taken from Hunter at Altamont. The cops believed him and let Passaro walk. The Rolling Stones allegedly paid Hunter’s mother $10,000 not to cause trouble.

By most accounts, the Hells Angels got away with murder at Altamont. Joanne Carswell certainly thinks so. “I saw it all. Hunter wasn’t threatening Jagger; it’s not like they were protecting him or anything,” she said. “And even if he had a gun, and I still don’t think he did, he didn’t stand a chance against all those bikers.”

It’s unclear why the Hells Angels got off. Maybe it was racism, maybe it was Belli’s charm or maybe it was the legendary reputation of the Hells Angels. Whatever it was, Altamont represented the end of the hippie era. The tragedy that sprang from the concert that was supposed to represent the anti-establishment ideals of the hippie generation instead showed the immense flaws in the peace and love philosophy. No matter how peaceful you want to be, there will always be bad men who want to take advantage of you. For every group of people who want to promote peace, equality and free love, there will be men with sawed-off pool cues and knives who will want to sell them drugs and bust their heads. Many saw Altamont as the death-knell of the hippie movement. Carswell, for one, took the flowers out of her hair and moved back home with her parents.

While the hippies lost their credibility, the Hells Angels increased theirs. The kind of young men who’d like to become Hells Angels were impressed and emboldened by what happened at Altamont. To them, the bikers at Altamont were doing their job, protecting Mick Jagger and each other from a black man with a gun. These were the kind of young men who saw all morality in absolutes, who saw violence as a natural retribution to those who break their rules and who saw a life outside the often incomprehensible laws of the state as logical, realistic and even romantic.

Such men have been flocking to the Hells Angels since they emerged in California after World War II. The organization was established as an entity in San Bernardino in 1947. Millions of men were coming back from the war and most of them wanted to return to their homes, wives, jobs and normalcy. But some didn’t. “Like the drifters who rode west after Appomattox [during the American Civil War], there were thousands of veterans in 1945 who flatly rejected the idea of going back to their prewar pattern,” said journalist Hunter S. Thompson, who wrote a book about the Hells Angels in 1965, Hell’s Angels, after having lived with them for two years. “They didn’t want order but privacy, and time to figure things out. It was a nervous, downhill feeling, a mean kind of angst that comes out of wars.”

There were literally thousands of them—young men accustomed to the thrills and horrors of combat who could find nothing for themselves in normal civilian life. There was one thing, however, that came close. In the late ’40s, motorcycles were very different than they are today. In that less sophisticated age, bikes were little more than engines, frames, chains and wheels. To make them even more dangerous and exciting, some riders would lengthen their bikes’ forks and handlebars and remove their rear springs, giving birth to what we now know as “choppers.” Many young men, fresh from the bloody fields of France or the vicious beaches of the South Pacific, needed something wild to satisfy their nihilistic urges—and tearing down the freeway on bikes was as close to fun as they could find.

These men didn’t fit into the button-down conformity of the Truman/Eisenhower era and were well aware of it. They couldn’t hang out with the squares any more than they could buy a tract house and drive a Ford Fairlane to the factory every day. Increasingly alienated from conventional culture, some combat-veteran bikers formed groups, at first loose and then later tight-knit, modeled after the units they served with in the military.

Many American units in World War II, particularly bomber squadrons, adopted the name Hells Angels. There was something about the concept of good men doing bad work (or bad men doing good work) that appealed to Americans in war. Perhaps the complex feelings aroused by dropping tons of high explosives and incendiaries on cities full of innocent civilians, all the while knowing it was the only way to combat fascism, created the quasi-religious paradox that brought about such an oxymoronic name.

Before America even entered the war, the Hells Angels existed. After Japan invaded China in 1937, what was left of Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist government was desperate. With no real air force of their own, the Chinese bought 100 American P-40 fighters from the British and went looking for pilots. Chiang’s wife hired Claire Chennault, a retired U.S. general, to recruit pilots under the guise of a civilian air transport company called the Central Aircraft Manufacturing Corporation. Chennault left the U.S. Army when he could not convince the brass that their bombers needed fighter protection and that using hit-and-run tactics would best suit the Americans’ fast, rugged planes. A wise man who understood the complex emotions and motivations of young men, Chennault trolled the American military looking for pilots with drive, ambition and a deep dissatisfaction with the military hierarchy.

Going into action just after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Chennault’s men, now known as the Flying Tigers, were a stunning success. Fighting over enemy territory, always outnumbered (sometimes by as much as 20 to 1), the Tigers used bravery, creativity and cutting-edge tactics to better the up-till-then invincible Japanese. While the regular American and British forces were being clobbered, the Flying Tigers were dominating. Despite ridiculous odds, the Tigers destroyed 286 Japanese planes for a loss of just six of their own.

The name probably came from the controversial 1930 Howard Hughes film, Hell’s Angels. At a cost of $3.8 million—inflated by Hughes’ pathological perfectionism which required 249 feet of film to be shot for every one that made it into the final cut—and three dead stunt pilots, the story of two charismatic American pilots who reluctantly fight for the British in World War I perfectly fit the image the Flying Tigers were trying to project.

After the Allies earned a toehold in Asia, the Flying Tigers were to be handed over from the Chinese to the U.S. Army Air Force. At first, it seemed like a good idea. The Flying Tigers had been operating in a devastated war zone with a minimum of food, ammunition and other supplies; getting a pipeline of goods from the States would help. But it didn’t turn out that way. As volunteers under Chinese control, the pilots had no official tie to the American military and had to be enlisted. “The officious colonel who was recruiting started threatening the guys,” said Dick Rossi, Pandas flight leader and six-kill ace. “He was one of those people with no combat experience who feels he knows it all.” The tough-guy sales pitch failed. Only five of more than 100 pilots joined the China Air Task Force.

One who didn’t join was Hell’s Angels squadron leader Arvid “Oley” Olson. Noted among his peers for his fearlessness and ability to improvise, he once acquired some crated machine guns from an American boat that was thought to be totally destroyed by the Japanese in 1937. He and some of his squadron mates instead chose to join the Chindits, a British commando unit operating in Burma, who had the same self-determining freedom from a distant command structure that the Flying Tigers had.

When the war ended, Olson and his friends ended up in San Bernardino. They rode big, loud Harley-Davidsons. They rarely associated with anyone else. But they didn’t become what we now know as the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club. Other units had used the name Hell’s Angels—most notably the 11th airborne division and the famously hard-drinking 303rd bomber squadron in North Africa and Europe—so it could have emerged from another source. It’s far more likely, however, the name’s origin came from area bikers who came into contact with Olson and his friends and wanted to emulate them. There’s no doubting they were cool.

All over America groups of young men were springing up who liked to ride bikes, party and live on the edge of the law or just outside it. Motorcycles were cheap; many were sold as army surplus after the war, and the men who rode them tended to cluster together because they didn’t always fit into conventional society very well or at all. Of course, not all motorcycle riders in the late ’40s, or even the majority of them, were outlaws. But the few that were tended to stand out and make things bad for the others.

The image of the antisocial trouble-making biker in a black leather jacket invaded widespread consciousness in the summer of 1947. Two motorcycle enthusiast groups—far from outlaws—organized a get-together for July 4th in the farming town of Hollister, California. Sanctioned by the American Motorcycle Association, the ride expanded to include races and hill-climbs. More than 4,000 bikers descended upon the town of 4,500.

Two groups in particular, the Pissed Off Bastards of Bloomington and the Booze Fighters, arrived with more on their minds than racing up hills. Drunk from the start, the Bastards and Fighters started racing and performing dangerous stunts in the streets, fighting, throwing beer bottles through windows and generally terrorizing the locals. Hollister’s seven-man police force was helpless and called in 40 highway patrolmen who established a sort of informal martial law. Bars were closed, a threat of tear gas was made and the bikers skulked out of town. Those who remained were the 50 or so who were seriously injured—Frank McGovern of Chico had his foot nearly severed in a racing accident—and the more than 50 who wound up in jail.