VICE: What was it about the Hells Angels and outlaw motorcycle clubs in general that was so attractive to you in the first place?
You were once the yin to [Hells Angels leader] Sonny Barger’s yang—a key part of the group as a prominent spokesman. How did that relationship deteriorate?
There was a period when I really looked up to Sonny. But one of the things that I felt was really interesting was the first time I went to prison, I went to FCI Terminal Island and asked one of the brothers on the yard, “Who do we have a problem with in here?” and he said, “We don’t fight in prison.”
Why did you ultimately sever ties with the club?
I felt we became the people we rebelled against, and that’s exactly what I told them at the meeting when I left. At one time, we would interact with all the clubs up and down the coast, and by 2011, we were fighting every major outlaw-bike club in the United States—plus law enforcement. That’s where some people lost perspective of what the initial intent was of the whole outlaw lifestyle. It seemed more military, like an army fighting another army.
Was it always your plan to write a book about your time with the Angels, and did you anticipate blowback?
After my departure from the club in 2011, there was a lot of misinformation going on about me. I had [formally] quit the club. I went to the meeting, and I did it the way you’re supposed to, followed protocol, faced everybody, and I said I think we have different visions and I’m going to call it a day, and I took my patch off, folded it up, put it on the table, and everybody seemed to understand my position. And then a couple of weeks later, I think, Sonny Barger was instrumental in getting my status changed. I got a phone call that I was no longer “out in good standing”—I was “out bad” with no contact.
They went on a campaign to shame me in social media, and all of a sudden I had people I’ve never met before, who weren’t even club members, who were maybe who you’d call loose associates or fans or whatever, coming at me, making accusations and whatnot. I decided to set the record straight.
Is that the extent of how ugly it got—some broken friendships?
If they want to say I’m “out bad,” I don’t have a problem with that, but they’re also inferring that I am an informant, which is absolutely not true. If I am, who did I testify against, and what trials did I testify at? There’s no paperwork on me. The US attorneys sealed my case files [over the allegations of arson and conspiracy to commit arson against rival tattoo parlors] because there are ten informants in it. From that point on, all the records were sealed. They seal cases all the time, and I was the only one who went to jail.
What’s the big deal about being “out bad?” It sounds like it’s still hanging over you.
Being “out bad” with no contact in the outlaw-motorcycle world is like a stigma—they don’t want people interacting with you, they don’t want people talking to you. Club members who I was friendly with after I left had their memberships in jeopardy if they communicated with me.
When I left, it kind of reminded me of a divorce: At first, everyone wanted to be amiable. They weren’t happy about my decision, but they understood it. As things progressed, it became aggressive, and it was hard to take. The phone rings and you pick up, and it’s one of your former brothers and he tells you you’re no longer a friend to us. That’s my whole life, because I didn’t have many friends outside the club. It was a hard pill to swallow.