Deep Cover: The ATF Agent Who Became a Hell’s Angel

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On the night of August 27th, 2002, a man sat in a busy hotel bar in Laughlin, Nevada.

He was approaching middle age, but looked as tough as they they come in a sleeveless leather jacket covered in patches.

The patches weren't a fashion statement.

They showed he was a member of the most notorious biker gang in America, the Hell's Angels.

Like the rest of his gang, he'd come from out of town for the annual Laughlin River Run, a motorcycle convention that drew thousands to this small casino town for a week of partying, gambling, and bike racing.

As the man sipped his drink, his phone buzzed.

He read the text.

It said, Get to Hera's and stand by for trouble.

The Mongols are asking for it.

He got up immediately.

Outside on the street, he could see other members of his crew streaming toward Hera's hotel and casino.

He made a quick stop at his bike to grab a wrench and hustled after the others, ready for whatever was about to go down.

Inside, the casino floor was teeming with bikers.

They forced their way past the crowds at slot machines and poker tables toward the the bar.

Two rival biker gangs had assembled, ready for war.

A biker's drink was knocked out of his hand, and in an instant, the battle had begun.

The gangs started pummeling each other.

Many had weapons.

Some whipped out knives, bats, heavy flashlights, even a ball-pink hammer.

The biker with the wrench threw himself at the other gang, swinging and clubbing any man wearing a mongol's patch.

In the chaos, none of the bikers cared that a dozen security cameras watched their every move.

Every stabbing, broken bone, and drop of blood was being recorded.

A gunshot erupted amid the chaos, then another.

Bikers on both sides fell, their blood staining the casino floor.

Those still standing ducked behind tables and attempted to return fire with pistols of their own.

But in the mayhem, it was difficult to see who was shooting at what.

Screaming bystanders attempted to flee the violence.

Then the bikers heard the sirens.

As the cops descended on the casino, they broke and scattered.

Some ditched the jackets that they usually wore so proudly so that they wouldn't be grabbed as suspects.

The brawl had lasted only three minutes and involved as many as 70 men.

One had been stabbed to death, another two died by gunfire.

Many more were injured.

The incident would become known as the River Run Riot.

Some federal agencies saw it as an opportunity.

In the wake of the riot, the gang that started the fight would be paranoid, desperate for allies.

That desperation would leave them vulnerable.

This was the Fed's chance.

It was time to go after the Hell's Angels.

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From Balin Studios in Wondery, I'm Luke Lamana, and this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations, and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments try to hide.

This week's episode is called Deep Cover, the ATF agent who became a hell's angel.

According to biker lore, 99% of motorcycle owners in the U.S.

are law-abiding citizens, which suggests that only the remaining 1% are violent criminals, the drug dealers and gun runners often celebrated in movies and TV shows.

Naturally, many outlaw bikers take this as a sign of pride, referring to themselves as 1%ers.

They're willing to cross any line for their brothers, and to law enforcement, They make up groups known as outlaw motorcycle gangs, like the infamous Hell's Angels.

Founded in 1948, the Angels are legends among the biker world.

They're hard-bitten outlaws who live by their own code.

The myth-making that gave them their reputation began in Oakland with Sonny Barger in the 1950s, and by the early 2000s, they had chapters all over the world.

Members of outlaw motorcycle gangs like the Hell's Angels are easy to spot when in uniform.

They wear sleeveless leather jackets, which they call cuts, that are covered in patches that display their gang affiliation.

If someone with the wrong patch gets spotted on a rival gang's territory, it can get ugly.

For years, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, or ATF, had been eyeing the biker community for signs of organized crime.

Until the early 2000s, criminal prosecution of outlaw motorcycle gangs was limited to individual cases.

But a number of ATF agents believed the time had come to try and build a RICO case against them.

Short for the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, RICO was developed as a way to fight organized crime in the 1970s.

So this time, they would be treating the Hell's Angels not as a biker gang that happened to harbor a few criminals, but as a criminal organization itself.

In order to make a RICO case stick, they needed irrefutable evidence, and the only way to get that sort of evidence was through rigorous undercover work.

This would lead to Operation Black Biscuit.

The plan was to create a fake biker gang made up entirely of undercover operatives.

They'd establish trust among the outlaw motorcycle gang community, making bigger and bigger deals with the angels until they finally had enough evidence to prosecute.

The team recruited for this task would get further than the Hell's Angels could have possibly expected.

They infiltrated the famous Lee Insular biker gang by proving their loyalty.

But a lack of confidence from their superiors ultimately handicapped the mission.

And in the end, the division between the agents on the ground and the Bureau itself reached a breaking point.

In early May 2002, about a week after the River Run riot, Joseph Slatala sat down at a Waffle House in Phoenix, Arizona.

He was a well-regarded ATF special agent and was looking to recruit someone.

the man he needed to infiltrate the hell's angels.

The undercover operation would be the most ambitious of his career.

Slatala heard the restaurant door open and looked to see Jay Dobbins walk in.

Dobbins was an intimidating presence.

He was a former college football star, broad-shouldered, tattooed, and sported a goatee.

He was also a seasoned undercover operative for the ATF.

He had been infiltrating outlaw motorcycle gang circles under the alias Bird.

And after six months of work, Jay and his team had enough material to lock up a handful of small-time illegal arms dealers.

Jay greeted Slatella with the nickname Slatz, and the two got down to business.

Slatz explained that by inciting a gang war at such a public event in Riverrun, the Hells Angels had brought themselves federal attention, and now it was time to build a RICO case against them.

He wanted Jay to lead the undercover team that would make it happen.

Slatz sat back, trying to gauge how his proposition landed with Jay.

The legendary Hell's Angels president, Sonny Barger, had once boasted that no cop had ever infiltrated the Hells Angels.

So this operation would be attempting the impossible, but it was also the sort of case that could make a man's career.

It didn't take long for Jay to respond.

Despite the challenge ahead, he said he was in.

Two months later, in July 2002, Jay Dobbins was roaring down Arizona's I-17 highway on a motorcycle.

Four other bikers rode with him.

They wore black and orange patches on their brand new biker jackets, signaling they were members of the Arizona chapter of the Solo Angeles.

In truth, the Arizona outfit was made up, but the Solo Angeles were a real club based out of Tijuana, Mexico.

The undercover operation relied on Jay and his team to pose as members of a legit biker gang, a small outfit that could gain the trust of the Hell's Angels.

Riding on Jay's left was one of the informants in his crew, Rudy Kramer, a biker and drug dealer who had been flipped by slats in exchange for a clean record.

He was their way into the biker world.

His established relationships with other outlaw motorcycle gangs gave them credibility.

On paper, Rudy was the president of the Arizona Solo Angeles.

Jay would go by his bird alias as Rudy's vice president.

The other members with them included another informant and two undercover cops.

Although Jay would have never said it out loud, as they cruised along the highway, he was terrified.

He didn't even like riding bikes, and Rudy was pushing the gang to drive faster than he was comfortable.

His legs were sore, and he was hanging onto his handlebars for dear life.

Finally, they arrived at their destination, a biker rally in Mormon Lake, Arizona, called Too Broke for Sturgis.

If their operation was going to be a success, it would need to start here by introducing their new gang to the rest of the biker world.

As the entrance gate came into sight, Rudy sped up.

Jay followed suit, even though he was already uncomfortable with how fast they were riding.

The men flipped off the attendant at the entrance as they blew past.

Jay laughed.

Being a rebel was a rush sometimes.

They parked their bikes and took a look around.

The rally was full of bikers looking to make a show of how tough they were.

Rudy took the lead.

He'd been talking the solo angeles up among his biker contacts, so there were already plenty of people who recognized the patch.

But even so, first impressions would be crucial.

As they made their way through the crowd, a member of another group called the Spartan Motorcycle Gang pointed at their jackets.

He asked why they looked so clean.

This caused the undercover cops to freeze up.

Except for Rudy's, each of their cuts were shiny and new, a dead giveaway that something was off.

Everyone else wore jackets that looked distressed, dirty, worn.

The solo angeles didn't look like they belonged.

Nervous, Jay cast a glance around the rally.

Unlike at the River Run, the chances of police coming to their aid here was beyond slim.

If the Spartans accused them of being cops, they'd have to run like hell or get ready to fight for their lives.

Either way, the operation would be a total failure.

One of the solo angeles spoke up.

It was Carlos Canino, an ATF ATF operative and a close friend of Jay's.

Thinking fast, he told the Spartans a story about how the woman they'd recruited to sew on their patches had messed up, butchering their old gear and forcing them to buy new leathers.

The other bikers were horrified by the story.

A biker's cut is sacred.

Carlos told them that he wished he could teach the woman a lesson, but she was one of the gang members' moms, so they just had to accept the insult.

Jay looked around and saw the accusing looks start to relax.

Relieved, he made a mental note to run his jacket over a few times with his car once they got back to their home base.

Finally, Jay and his team reached the Hells Angels tent.

They were welcomed inside by two angels that had been told that Rudy and the Solo Angeles might be paying them a visit.

Turns out, Rudy was on friendly terms with Robert Bad Bob Johnston, the leader of the Hells Angels Mesa chapter.

Bad Bob wasn't here, but he'd instructed the angels to treat the Solo Angeles with the respect of an ally.

They chugged beers with the Angels that night.

In between boasts and bravado, Jay found time to exchange an amazed glance with his buddy Carlos.

So far, their plan was working.

But if life working undercover had taught Jay anything, he knew that nothing was this easy.

Before long, they would have to prove that their gang was more than just talk.

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About a week later, on the night of August 1st, 2002, Jay and his team pulled up to the Hells Angels Clubhouse in Mesa, Arizona.

They'd been invited because Bad Bob wanted to meet them face to face.

Jay was concerned.

It felt like an invitation for trouble, especially after dark.

The Mesa Clubhouse was in a residential neighborhood, but there was no mistaking it for someone's house.

The logo of the Hells Angels hung on a pair of banners beside the porch.

They showed death wearing a motorcycle helmet.

Underneath was the word Mesa written in aggressive red lettering.

As they parked outside the clubhouse, Jay wondered if Rudy might be leading them into a trap.

If the informant wanted to bring down a handful of cops, this would be the perfect way to do it.

Jay was relying on Rudy being more scared of the cops than the Hell's Angels, which was a dangerous bet to make.

Once they entered the Mesa clubhouse, they couldn't count on any protection.

Even if Slatz and the others were monitoring their every breath, they'd be cut off from backup.

Jay Jay reflexively touched the pair of Glock 19 pistols that he kept by his side.

The rest of their team were armed, except for Rudy.

It was illegal to arm an informant.

Five angels emerged from the building.

If it came to a fight, it'd be one for each of them.

One of the angels, nicknamed Ghost, blocked Jay's way and said that they would have to leave their weapons at the door.

Jay felt his gut tighten.

If the angels didn't trust them to go inside armed, the operation would be over before it began.

And, if if he offended these guys, well, the Hell's Angels weren't exactly known to like insults.

Stealing himself, Jay put up his hands.

He told Ghost that he meant no disrespect, but he doesn't take off his guns for anybody, even the angels.

Ghost didn't budge.

He told Jay that they don't make exceptions.

Ghost's expression was unreadable behind his wraparound shades.

It was a standoff.

Suddenly, a large man appeared behind Ghost and demanded to know what was causing the holdup.

Jay stiffened.

It was Bad Bob.

At 6'5 and 230 pounds, Bad Bob was intimidating.

If he wanted Jay and his team beaten within an inch of their lives, or worse, he only needed to say the word.

He looked the solo Angeles up and down, and then turned to Ghost.

Bad Bob told him that he made the rules.

and these were his guests.

They could pack heat if they wanted to.

Jay was relieved, and keeping his head high, he stepped past Ghost into the clubhouse.

A series of deadbolts clicked ominously behind them.

Jay introduced himself to Bad Bob.

His cover story was rock solid, established firmly by his previous undercover work.

He was a debt collector, someone who people hired when they needed extra muscle.

The persona worked like a charm.

As the evening rolled on, Jay's confidence grew.

He knew exactly how to leverage his appearance for guys like these, guys who spent spent their entire lives chasing an image of tough guy stoicism.

Unlike riding a motorcycle at 100 miles an hour, he was finally in his comfort zone.

When Bad Bob suggested that they take their party to a bar, Jay braced himself.

Rudy had warned them that all the angels rode like lunatics, and he was right.

Jay got on his bike and gunned the engine, following the angels.

They screamed down the highway through the Arizona night, no more than 18 inches between each bike.

Everything the man in the lead did, the others were expected expected to follow.

If you ran a red light or went against traffic, so would they.

They were one unit, striking fear into everyone else on the road.

Jay and the other undercover operatives got back to their headquarters well after 1 a.m., utterly exhausted.

But adrenaline kept him awake.

As he wrote his first report, he couldn't help but feel a small swell of pride.

Tonight, we rode with the Hell's Angels.

Five months later, on November 2, 2002, Jay was at a funeral for a biker friend of Rudy's.

The solo angeles were there as a sign of solidarity.

At least, that was what he told Rudy.

The reality was far less sentimental.

Over the last few months, Rudy had deteriorated, and Jay was preparing to cut him from the operation.

He'd fallen back into his old meth addiction.

He'd shown up late to meetings and rallies, forgotten important details, and gone long stretches without contacting the others.

It was only a matter of time before he blew the case for all of them.

Who knew what he might say if he was high and an angel asked him the wrong question?

Operation Black Biscuit was already hanging by a thread, and Rudy's erratic behavior was putting it at even greater risk.

They'd made some headway with small deals involving drugs and guns, but the previous month, the ATF had pulled Jay's most trusted ally, Carlos, off to work another case.

He was one of their most experienced agents, and losing him was a major blow.

With the mission in a delicate place, Jay had made the call.

Rudy had to go, and today would be his last as a member of the crew.

On their way back from the funeral, the solo angels rode in formation, Rudy and Jay up front, the other two behind.

But as they turned onto 7th Street, they screeched to a halt.

A pair of squad cars blocked their path.

The group spun their bikes around, only to find three additional units now behind them.

SWAT team members poured out and surrounded them on both sides.

Jay looked at Rudy.

His eyes were wide, his expression frantic.

He was clearly in fight-or-flight mode.

Jay quickly told him he needed to be calm.

They weren't going to outrun the cops.

The SWAT officers ordered the men off their bikes and onto the pavement.

Jay and his men complied, laying down on the street.

The operation was swift and precise.

The officers identified Rudy and searched his bike.

They found a loaded pistol and three ounces of meth.

They bagged the evidence, cuffed him, and hauled him off away for processing.

Jay hadn't known that Rudy was armed.

This could have gone very badly if he'd panicked.

Within minutes, the entire barricade had vanished, leaving Jay and the other two to get back up.

The setup had gone exactly as planned.

Now Jay was the acting president of the Solo Angeles, and Operation Black Biscuit could continue without Rudy risking it.

Jay got back on his bike, feeling relieved, but daunted by the work ahead.

It hadn't even been half a year, and already their team was down from five to three.

At this rate, they'd need to start hiring new agents, or the operation would collapse.

A few weeks later, Jay welcomed a group of angels to party at what he told them was the Solo Angeles Clubhouse.

In reality, it was an undercover house.

The windows were boarded up, and it smelled like it had hosted a thousand biker parties.

None of the angels questioned it for an instant.

Jay introduced the angels to his girlfriend, JJ.

Her real name was Jenna McGuire.

She was an up-and-coming undercover agent and had pretended to be his lady during a couple of social events.

Jay had persuaded Slatz to bring Jenna onto the team officially, and was astonished by how fast she was accepted by the Hells Angels and their girlfriends.

As the party started, the undercover operatives divided up.

While Jay and the men hung out with the bikers, Jenna bought drugs from the bikers' girlfriends, a small treasure trove of Vicodin and meth.

But those were smaller pieces of the puzzle.

The bigger goal was to set up two Hell's Angels named Doug and Hank.

Jay had been discussing doing a gun deal with them for a few weeks, and tonight it would finally happen.

Jay and Jenna took them aside and asked to see the weapons.

The two angels looked uncomfortable.

Suddenly, Jay realized that he had crossed an unspoken boundary.

The Hell's Angels felt women had no place at these sorts of deals.

But Jay couldn't let them know he'd messed up.

He had to think fast or the deal would die right there.

He aggressively told the bikers that if they couldn't deal with JJ, the deal was off.

The two angels hesitated, but finally gave in.

Jay didn't like to admit it to himself, but it felt good staring down the Hell's Angels.

This job wasn't just about charm.

In order to play the long game, he needed to demand respect.

By the end of the night, there were three new semi-automatic pistols in their evidence locker worth $1,600.

It was the biggest gun deal Operation Black Biscuit had done yet.

Progress was slow, but the Rico case against the Hells Angels felt more real by the day.

And these hardened criminals didn't even know what was coming.

Nine months into Operation Black Biscuit, on February 28, 2003, Jay and the rest of the undercover team were taking a breather, relaxing on sofas at their clubhouse.

Jay's cell phone rang.

The voice on the other end was Slatz, but something sounded different about him.

He sounded scared.

He told Jay to get out of the house immediately, along with everybody else.

He didn't have time to explain.

They needed to come meet him, now.

Fifteen minutes later, Jay and his men met Slatz.

He looked agitated.

This wasn't the confident man Jay was used to dealing with.

Slatz ushered Jay and his team into a conference room and carefully shut the door.

Then, he told them the news.

They'd been made.

A group of angels were coming to kill them.

According to a snitch from the DEA, the vice president of the Real Solo Angeles from Tijuana had been ranting about their gang.

He said the Arizona Solos had muscled their way into the club and weren't legit.

The accusation had reached the Hell's Angels and Mesa, who were starting to get suspicious.

The room was silent as Jay and his crew considered the bad news.

Jay knew what was supposed to happen in this scenario.

That was when the ATF would pull the plug for the safety of the operatives.

Jay didn't want to accept it, but at that moment, he didn't know what to do.

He was sure Slatz was already considering whether the Rico case would go ahead with the evidence they had.

Then Jay's phone rang again.

It was Bad Bob.

Everyone watched as Jay answered it, shifting into his bird persona.

Bad Bob was pissed, and he told Jay they needed to talk.

He asked if Jay was really part of the solo Angelis.

Jay scoffed at the question and asked Bob what he was talking about.

Bob told Jay to meet him at a nearby sports bar in one hour, alone.

Then he hung up.

Jay relayed the message to Slatz and the team.

There was a sliver of hope here.

It sounded like Bad Bob was giving him an opportunity to tell his side of the story.

The team went to work right away.

While an advanced squad went to the bar to quietly scope it out, Jay and Slatz rehearsed the upcoming conversation.

Slatz played the role of Bad Bob.

If the head of the Mesa Angels really wanted to talk, this could be a chance to salvage the operation and their Rico case.

Jay wouldn't go to this meeting empty-handed either.

The team gathered a small cache of items, videotapes, Polaroid photos, dues receipts, patches from Tijuana, evidence that the solo angeles were legit.

They treated this like Jay was going to court, bringing evidence that the opposing counsel couldn't discredit.

When Jay arrived at the bar, Bad Bob was waiting for him.

He took Jay to a booth and told him everything he'd heard.

Like he'd rehearsed, Jay acted offended at the accusations.

He told Bob that he respected Bob's guys, but they had it all wrong.

He handed over the evidence, insisting that he and his guys were members of the solos.

Despite his aggressive act, inside, Jay was terrified.

He knew that at any moment, Bad Bob might signal to someone to splatter his brains all over the table, but Bad Bob just pulled out a cigarette.

Picking up the cue, Jay produced a lighter and lit it for him.

He told Jay he believed him, and that he'd get the dogs to back off.

Jay felt the tension leave his shoulders.

But before he got too comfortable, Bad Bob told him that there would be conditions.

The Solo Angeles would have to give up certain privileges.

No dealing or buying in Arizona for the time being.

They needed to sort things out within their own clubhouse.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but Jay accepted it.

They were still in the game, and that's what counted.

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Four months later, in June of 2003, Slatz was back in the sparse conference room, more anxious than ever.

One by one, his undercover operatives filed in.

They looked exhausted.

Jay in particular was a mess.

He was tense, like a coiled spring, and ready to explode.

Maybe that made him a more believable outlaw to the Hell's Angels, but to Slatz, that made him seem unhinged.

Slatz asked Jay for an update on the operation.

Jay said the Solo Anhles

were no more.

They had let their gang disband so they could join the Hell's Angels.

However, they were only prospects, not full members.

It had taken them at least six months to work their way up to full membership.

Slatz was pissed.

The operation had been running for over a year, and every time Slatz told Jay he needed more evidence, he responded that they needed more time.

Slatz felt the undercover operatives had no clue how hard it was managing an operation like this, how he had to sell their every decision to his superiors and fight for every month of continued funding.

Another six months would be a huge ask from his department.

Confidence in the operation was already low.

If the team couldn't make immediate progress soon, it might be better to cut their losses.

Jay objected, like Slatz knew he would.

He said they couldn't just let the case die, not when they'd come so close.

Slatz said he was running out of patience.

He folded his arms and asked if Jay had a plan.

Jay nodded, he did have a plan, and it would require doing something that would make every Hell's Angel look up to them.

They would kill a member of their rival gang, the Mongols.

Later that month, on June 25th, Jay put his plan into action.

He took their remaining informant, Pops, aside.

Pops had been a reliable member of the team since their first rally together, but for only $500 a week plus expenses, the gig was getting too dangerous for him.

Jay told Pops that he could go and thanked him for his help.

Pops leaving would give Jay an opportunity to stage a brutal encounter with the Mongols.

He began working on a cover story.

He would tell the Angels that they were heading to Tijuana on some business, that Pops was gunned down by the Mongols, but that they got their revenge.

It would be a gripping tale to prove themselves worthy of the Angels.

On June 26th, Jay drove out into the desert to meet some officers from the Phoenix Police Department.

Far from the city, on dirt that was visually indistinguishable from Mexico, they staged some photos.

One of the officers dressed in a Mongol cut that had been taken from a previous drug bust.

He lay down, and everyone else dressed him up with lamb's blood to make it look like he'd been shot in the head.

They took pictures of the body, carefully selecting the ones that looked the most real.

Then they took the bloody jacket off and mailed it to Jenna.

Jenna called one of their angel contacts.

On the phone, she acted scared.

She said she'd heard that Pops had been killed in Mexico.

Bird had sent her an unmarked package, and they were on their way back.

She didn't know what to do.

Then she hung up, wiped away her fake tears, and waited.

In the the next few hours, Operation Black Biscuit was either going to get a shot of adrenaline or a bullet to the head.

Two days later, on June 27, 2003, Jay and Jenna waited in a trailer as Three Hell's Angels pulled up outside.

Jenna answered the door for them.

Their leader was an old man with an oxygen tank.

He looked disturbed.

One of the others was crying.

Pops had been well-liked, and they were all shook by his death.

After exchanging hugs with everyone, Jay told them the full story.

He said that he and Pops had gone down to Mexico.

There, they'd run into a member of the Mongols.

The rival gang member had gotten a drop on Pops, gunning him down in a cantina.

Bird and his guys had buried their fallen brother, and then got revenge.

They ambushed the Mongol, beat him unconscious, and drove him out to the desert.

Then, they executed him for Pops, one shot to the head.

Jay gestured to a a FedEx box lying on the table.

They didn't want to risk getting caught at the border, so they'd sent the proof to Jenna before continuing home.

The angels opened the box.

Inside, to their amazement, was a bloodstained mongol jacket.

Jay showed them the pictures, too, images of a mangled corpse lying in a shallow ditch in the desert.

The older Hell's Angel removed the breathing tubes from his nose so that he could speak clearly.

He told them that they wouldn't forget this.

Jay had proven himself, and he would become a full angel in no time.

The Hail Mary plan seemed to have worked perfectly.

But unfortunately, Jay's victory was short-lived.

That evening, he went out drinking with the Hell's Angels.

One of them pulled him aside and said that he'd been where Jay was years ago.

He'd also killed for the angels, and that had gotten him his patches, but not right away.

He told Jay, that he'd have to be patient.

Besides, even if they could get approval from the Hell's Angels Angels in America, the European Hells Angels would probably overrule them.

The Europeans, he said, were getting increasingly annoyed with just how fast Americans were getting into the club.

Jay felt his stomach sink.

Everything he'd done for the last 13 months was all going to come crashing down.

Not because he got discovered, but because of gang bureaucracy.

In that moment, He knew that Operation Black Biscuit was dead.

There was no way the ATF would finance months of additional undercover work on the off chance that they'd get juicier evidence.

Within a week, Jay received the call that he was dreading from Slatz.

His boss told him to take four weeks of mandatory time off.

Jay's work was done, and Slatz would take it from here.

Jay protested, but it was no use.

The operation was over.

Just before dawn, on July 8th, 2003, a major police raid was in motion.

Across Arizona, California, Washington, Nevada, and Colorado, SWAT teams descended on the homes of known Hell's Angels.

Everyone who Jay and his team had interacted with were arrested, 50 in total, including Bad Bob.

In the process of serving their warrants, the raids collected more than 1,600 pieces of evidence, including illegal weapons, pipe bombs, napalm, dynamite, illegal drugs, and cash.

Jay received a panic call from one of the girlfriends of an angel he knew.

She was trying to warn him that they were in danger.

He let it go to voicemail.

Of the 50 angels that were arrested, 16 would be charged with racketeering, Bad Bob among them.

In the process of the trial, the identities of the undercover operatives would come out.

Jay's cover was permanently blown, and he would never be able to work undercover again.

Even worse, the Hell's Angels now knew that Jay had betrayed them.

Five years later, in August of 2008, Jay's wife Gwen awoke to the smell of smoke.

The back patio of their Tucson home was on fire.

She woke the kids in a panic and they ran outside.

They managed to escape unscathed, but half the house would burn, causing $30,000 in damage.

Jay wasn't home at the time.

Afterwards, he was convinced the angels were responsible.

But the ATF did not share his view.

A spokesman for the Bureau alleged that Jay had set the fire himself for the insurance money.

Jay sued his former employer for insufficiently protecting him and his family.

In 2014, a federal judge found the ATF responsible for recklessly endangering their former operative.

He and his family would leave Arizona for the West Coast for protection.

Jay had agreed to work on Operation Black Biscuit because it would make his career.

In a sense, it did.

It was his greatest achievement as an undercover operative.

It was also his last.

Operation Black Biscuit had a strange reputation in the annals of law enforcement history.

Jay Dobbins and Joseph Slatz Slatala achieved something that had never been done before.

They forced their way into the Hell's Angels and did lasting damage to their organization.

But on the other hand, the case itself was a failure.

Bureaucracy frustrated the RICO case at every step of the way.

The ATF had pulled the operatives too early, and then infighting between the ATF and the U.S.

attorneys killed any chance of meaningful prosecution.

None of the RICO charges stuck, and only a handful of the Angels ended up serving short prison sentences for individual offenses.

The grueling legwork done by Jay Dobbins and his team was seen by the Bureau not as an achievement, but as a liability.

When the time came, the ATF would give them the blame for the operation's failure.

In the end, their biggest enemy wasn't the angels themselves, but their supervisors.

Follow Redacted Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke Lamana, on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.

If you're looking to dive into more gripping stories from Balin Studios and Wondery, you can also listen to my other podcast, Wartime Stories, early and ad-free with Wondery Plus.

Start your free trial in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify today.

Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.

From Balin Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted, Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke Lamana.

A quick note about our stories.

We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized.

We used used many different sources for our show, but we especially recommend No Angel, My Harrowing Undercover Journey to the Inner Circle of the Hell's Angels by Jay Dobbins and Nils Johnson Shelton, the Justice Department report, Hell's Angels Criminal Enterprise, and the A ⁇ E series, Secrets of the Hell's Angels.

This episode was written by Robert Teemstra.

Sound design by Andre Plubes.

Our producers are Christopher B.

Dunn and John Reed.

Our associate producers are Anesse Rennie Kay and Molly Quinlan Artwick.

Fact-checking by Sheila Patterson.

For Ballin Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt.

Script editing by Scott Allen.

Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins.

Production support by Avery Siegel.

Produced by me, Luke Lamana.

Executive producers are Mr.

Ballin and Nick Witters.

For Wondery, our senior producers are Laura Donna Palavota, Dave Schilling, and Rachel Engelman.

Senior managing producer is Nick Ryan.

Managing producer is Olivia Fonte.

Executive producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louie.

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