Hell's Angel Encounter Tests Concealed Weapon Laws

In the law enforcement blogosphere, as well as the mainstream media, the case was controversial from the get-go:

Four off-duty, out-of-state LEOs and a firefighter, all members of the police motorcycle club called the Iron Pigs, get into a heated confrontation with some Hell’s Angels at a roadhouse during the annual bike rally in Sturgis, S.D. One of the cops shoots one of the HAs. A county grand jury indicts the officers and the fireman for CCW in a drinking establishment, a violation of South Dakota law.

The law enforcement community reacts with major mixed emotions. If the charges stick, that would be the first successful challenge of the hard-fought and much-cherished federal legislation that allows off-duty and retired peace officers to carry legally in any jurisdiction in the U.S. On the other hand, some asked, why did cops show the “poor judgment” of recreating on the same premises with outlaw bikers at an infamous event like the Sturgis rally?

As the operator of one popular LE listserv put it after a South Dakota court threw out the indictments last November: “A correct decision…But again, the core issue is not to go to places while armed where trouble is a certainty and there is no compelling reason to do so.”

Is it fair to question the common sense of the officers involved?

You be the judge. But first, here are some things about the case you may not know.

THE SETTING. The headlines about cops being in a “brawl” in a “biker bar” were enough to skew the opinions of many civilians and fellow LEOs at the outset—and to distress the involved officers, who felt such terminology unjustly characterized what happened, smeared their reputations, and potentially threatened their careers.

Despite its suggestive name, the Loud American Roadhouse where the shooting took place is not the stereotypical biker-gang hangout, according to locals. Instead, it’s “a mainstream, family-type restaurant-bar, with food, live music, and dancing, famous for its steak tips,” says Robert Van Norman, a long-time resident of nearby Rapid City and a partner in the law firm of Nooney, Solay & Van Norman, which defended the accused officers.

One of those officers, whom we’ll call Steven Shane (he asked that his real name not be used), told PoliceOne that he’d been assured “by other LEOs that it was a law enforcement-friendly place.” On a previous visit, he says, the owner himself told him he was glad to have out-of-town officers frequenting the place. “I’ve seen Blue Knights, Renegade Pigs, Sentinels, and other cop motorcycle clubs there,” Shane says. “We all went to the same place, and there was never a problem. OMGs [outlaw motorcycle gangs] never went there. They had places of their own.”

But that hot and humid night last August, as the week-long rally wound down, a small contingent of Hell’s Angels did show up, after the Iron Pigs were already there. The HAs, wearing their colors, hung around the large four-sided bar in the center of the place where several members of the IPs were eating, socializing, and listening to the band, along with a noisy throng of some 400 other patrons.

As we’ll see, the HAs may have been present with a specific purpose in mind.

THE PLAYERS. The accused officers, all from Washington State, were “highly decorated,” seasoned veterans of law enforcement, “not inexperienced young cops out being cowboys,” Van Norman says.

Dennis McCoy, a patrol sergeant with Seattle P.D., “has 40 years on the job,” according to Van Norman. Some 50 years’ combined experience is shared by the others, Seattle Det. Ronald Smith; James Rector, assistant port director for U.S. Customs and Border Protection, and Sr. Customs Ofcr. Scott Lazalde, both based in Blaine, Wash. Smith and Lazalde have Military Police experience, as well.

Lazalde and his wife had arrived at the Roadhouse after shopping that evening among the rally’s many vendors for new leathers; theirs had been stolen from their bikes during the long ride from the West Coast. The fireman in the group, Erik Pingel, with the U.S. DoD in Colorado, was with his girlfriend. All the males were flying their colors, like every other motorcycle club member at the rally. During the late evening and past midnight, “we were just enjoying a good time socializing before heading home the next day,” says Steven Shane. “We weren’t rubbing elbows and slamming down beers with the Hell’s Angels.”

Something that’s called “conjecture” by Van Norman’s associate lawyer, Kenneth Orrock, is considered a very real possibility by Steven Shane: that the HAs had a special interest that night in Det. Ron Smith.

Shane explains: Smith, whose nickname is “Kilo” from his days as a narc, “had testified in a RICO case against Hell’s Angels in Seattle. Four of them went to prison. He got threatening phone calls at his house during and after the trial.

“This was his first year at Sturgis. The HAs could have known he was there. They’ve got a better intelligence network than cops do.”

Certainly history shows that the gang can be violently proactive when it comes to law enforcement. Although they’re only a tiny minority of the thousands of riders who roar into Sturgis for the annual pilgrimage, “the HAs own property there and there’s an informal understanding that they are the top turf holder in and around town during that week,” says Ted Deeds, chief operating officer for the Law Enforcement Alliance of America (LEAA), which aided in defending the indicted officers.

“Many folks believe the HAs are a group of criminal predators,” Deeds says. “They had a chance to seize an opportunity to send a message. I think they were going to take on these cops and leave a mark.”

THE SHOOTING. The first contact with HAs at the jam-packed Roadhouse came around 1 a.m., through a biker whose jacket patches indicated he was a gang prospect, according to Shane. “He came up and talked to me, asking where we were from, who we were. I knew he was gathering intelligence. I figured maybe it was part of his initiation. I didn’t know about Ron’s history with the HAs at that point.

“The conversation was cordial. We smiled at each other, and he went on to the next guy.” When he reached Smith, the casual cordiality took a nasty turn, Shane says. Soon two “full patch” HAs joined the prospect and “they all got in Ron’s face. It was like they’d gone through the crowd, looking for him.”

Smith tried to defuse the situation by proposing that the cops and the outlaws stay on opposite sides of the square bar so everyone could enjoy themselves. Sgt. McCoy, known for “a gift of gab that could sweet-talk a rock,” pulled cigars from his pocket and suggested, “Let’s go have a smoke and calm down,” Shane recalls.

The HAs didn’t bite. The prospect, meanwhile, was busy text-messaging on his cell phone.

“We were telling each other, ‘Let’s get the women together and get out. We don’t need this,’ ” Shane says. “The HAs were still in Ron’s face. They wouldn’t let it go.”

As the Iron Pigs worked to pluck their scattered party from the crowd, “an older guy, a civilian, tapped me on the shoulder,” Shane says. “He said he’d heard the HAs talking and ‘They’ve already called their buddies to come here,’ ” apparently from a Hell’s Angels’ bar about a block away. “He said, ‘They’re waiting for you outside. Watch your back.’ ”

It wasn’t long before one of the HAs grabbed Shane’s left arm. “I jerked away. Another off-duty cop we didn’t know tackled him. I heard a bunch of yelling…and all hell broke loose.”

Outside, according to attorney Orrock, some HAs were gunning their bikes and peeling rubber down the street, apparently in “an attempt to draw law enforcement away from the Roadhouse.” Perhaps a dozen others “bull-rushed through security” and charged into bar.

“Ron Smith was cold-cocked; he doesn’t know where it came from,” Orrock says. “The next he knew, he was down on the floor, with his head against the foot rail of the bar. He was getting kicked with boots and taking other types of impact.”

Shane says: “A Hell’s Angel got a headlock on him and was pounding him in the face with his fist, upper-cuts to his eye socket and nose. They were trying to kill him.”

Orrock: “As he was starting to black out, he drew his Glock 23 and fired two shots.” One hit the abdomen, the other the leg of a Hell’s Angel from California, later identified as 33-year-old Joseph McGuire, seriously wounding him and stopping the attack. “Absolute bedlam broke out as people tried to flee the place,” Orrock says.

“Smith back-peddled himself into a corner, placed his badge on his chest so it could be seen, and laid his gun in his lap in case he needed to further defend himself. His nose was broken, a tooth was chipped, he’d suffered a concussion, his ribs were badly bruised, and his eye was nearly swollen shut.”

Attorney Van Norman considers what happened next to be “amazingly selfless.” Scott Lazalde, who moments before had been a target of the HAs’ threatening harassment, grabbed towels and other materials from the bar and worked feverishly to stanch the flow of blood from McGuire’s wounds. “Stay with me!” Lazalde urged him. “Stay with me! You’re gonna be okay.”

“There were still a lot of Hell’s Angels around and lots of high emotions,” Van Norman says. “At that moment Scott wasn’t sure even where his wife was in the screaming crowd. But his first aid probably kept this outlaw biker from bleeding out.” LEAA’s Ted Deeds calls Lazalde “a hero.”

THE GRAND JURY. The Iron Pigs involved in the fracas readily admitted to being armed, as permitted with the approval of their respective agencies under the federal Law Enforcement Officers Safety Act of 2004 (popularly known as HR 218). They voluntarily surrendered their weapons to Sturgis police, and Smith’s blood was tested. He was found not to be under the influence of alcohol or drugs. “There was never any evidence in any way, shape, or form that anyone in their party was intoxicated that night,” Van Norman says.

The Meade County grand jury sits continuously during the bike rally, explains Van Norman, and the officers were instructed to appear as “witnesses” on Sunday. During the seven-hour hearing, Shane says they spoke freely and fully about what happened. By contrast, the grand jury transcript shows that a string of Hell’s Angels called before the panel all pleaded the 5th Amendment.

Investigation of the shooting had been handed off to the South Dakota attorney general’s Division of Criminal Investigation, a customary procedure. According to Orrock, two DCI agents testified before the grand jury that if they’d been in a similar situation, “they would have acted the same way the Iron Pigs did.”

“No one ever indicated that we might be in trouble,” Shane says. They went home and returned to their normal routines. Then two weeks later the shit-storm broke. “We learned from the media,” Shane says, “that we’d been indicted on criminal charges.

“I was flabbergasted. I wondered if that meant I’d lose my job and my house.”