Sons of Anarchy Season Zero: The Crow's Nest

by Cole Ortiz

When John Teller and Piney Winston seek revenge for the man who saved their lives in Vietnam, they find themselves trapped on a path they will never escape from. Set amid the criminal and political violence overtaking 1960s California, this prequel is the story of how JT and his close friends found the club to protect themselves, their town and everything they hold dear.

15. Currents of Dissent

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay in updates. Very busy with real life but once again I do have the story planned out. Also got distracted writing my "deleted scenes" for "13 Hours" and "Hillary's America" which features events as I picture them happening in the State Department as the Benghazi attack unfolded.

CHAPTER 15: CURRENTS OF DISSENT

MAYANS CLUBHOUSE, OAKLAND

"First, in the middle of our troubles, we still have something to celebrate," Frisco said, looking around his table then speaking to Alejandro. "Let him in."

Alejandro opened the door and motioned for Oscar to enter. "Andale, mi hermano."

Oscar stepped forward into the room for the first time. As a Mayan prospect, he had access to most of Plaza Maya, including the strippers who doubled as prostitutes and the endless supply of the drugs brought across the border by the club and its associates, but he was never allowed into the chapel, the club's inner sanctum, until now. Upon hearing Frisco's words, Alejandro knew that his time had finally come.

"When we were in the kitchen at Casa Grande, I saw how you pulled the trigger without hesitation when the hueyputas tried to bullshit us. And you did not even flinch when you killed Chef Marco's son."

"I was honored that you gave me this opportunity, presidente Frisco" Oscar replied respectfully. "I knew I could not let you down. And that fucking coconut had it coming."

Most of the Mayans gathered around the table cheered that comment and cursed the owners of Casa Grande Mexican Restaurant for siding with the Sons of Anarchy and feeding false information to the Oakland gang members the Mayans had sent to Charming.

"The loss of our brother Jorge has left his position vacant. You have demonstrated the cajones and machismo this club needs and have proven yourself worthy of a place at this table. We have selected you to take Jorge's place as the Master at Arms."

Earlier in the meeting, Frisco had appointed Alejandro to take Juan's place as Vice President, a position that had been unfilled for months. Now Oscar would take his place as the master at arms. Benito continued to be the charter's secretary.

"Gracias, jefe. I will do anything for this club. I will give my life for it."

"I know you will, Oscar," Frisco said before getting Oscar's half-brother Alejandro to do the honors. Alejandro took a pocketknife and cut out the prospect patch and replaced it with one that read "Master at Arms" in Spanish. "Congratulations. You are now one of our full members with all the privileges I allow."

After the toasts of tequila were completed, Frisco looked around the table with a serious expression on his face. "Now, we will discuss what's next in this war."

MAYANS OAKLAND CLUBHOUSE / GERALDO RIVERA'S RESIDENCE, LAGUNA NIGUEL, ORANGE COUNTY

Mayans National President Geraldo Rivera greeted Pablo Hinojosa with a warm handshake and an embrace as the latter was whisked right through the heavily armed security at Geraldo's hillside villa. The other Mayan bikers from Pablo's San Diego charter offered to stand outside as a show of force but Geraldo told them to remain at a distance. People in this upper middle class community didn't like that kind of security, Geraldo said quite frankly. He did employ several professional looking armed security guards, all of them ex-Mexican Army soldiers. All this made him feel like he was in the big leagues.

"Thank you for the invitation, Geraldo," Pablo said as they walked through the formal dining room and out toward the patio, where several Pacifico beers were waiting for them. While Mexican décor was very prominent in the house and the surrounding grounds, Pablo saw that it also had many Anglo influences in its furniture and in some of the paintings, some of which even included pastoral European landscapes, and a fountain with a Roman-style sculpture in the middle. Maybe this was Geraldo's effort to appear classy, he thought.

"I assume you're starting to share the doubts I've always had about our compadres up in Oakland."

Geraldo took a puff on his Cuban cigar. "Unfortunately, yes. But remember, I am in charge of this conversation with Frisco. You are simply here to get a better picture of the situation, and maybe confirm the concerns you brought up during our recent meeting."

"Of course, presidente."

Soon enough, the telephone rang in Geraldo's study. Pablo was taken aback at the design of this sleek, modern suburban home, which was different than anything he had entered before. When he left the shantytowns of Tijuana all those years ago, this was the American Dream he had envisioned, and Geraldo had achieved it, albeit through the criminal kind of entrepreneurship. This was the office where so much of the national leadership's business was conducted, no different than the kind of thing a banker would have in his home.

Frisco Martinez was on the other end calling from Plaza Maya, where he sat alone in his cluttered office where the finances of the restaurant and club were also managed. "Geraldo, I understand you wanted to speak to me, before the next national meeting."

"Si," Geraldo said. "I'm going to get straight to the point, Frisco. The national charter is very concerned about the events in your area. It may be even worse than if you had never gone to war with the Sons in the first place."

"We have discovered more things about the Sons, more things they think are secret but aren't. I will have them defeated!"

"I am not finished yet," Geraldo said, silencing Frisco. "Many of the other charters who have contributed men to your war in the spirit of brotherhood, particularly the Las Vegas, Dallas, and Denver charters are questioning whether it had been wise to do so. What has this club gained from these sacrifices? And all the money spent on the weapons. "

That's the mentality of the American government in Vietnam, not willing to fight to the bitter end regardless of the cost like the communists were, Frisco thought but bit his tongue. He was already in poor standing with the national leaders and didn't want to make things even worse for himself.

"We…we have kept the Sons on their toes. They are all changing their routines. They can only take so much. I know it, Geraldo."

"And you're sure you can outlast them? The last thing I want to mention is that some of the street gangs you call upon in Oakland have gone over your head and spoke directly to us about reconsidering their cooperation. They tell me it is bringing too much heat from the police…."

"Those are fucking lies that they're telling you! The policia are afraid to enter the barrios we control! The Hondurans dare go above us?"

"You will not interrupt me again, Frisco."

Frisco gritted his teeth. "Lo siento, presidente. This situation…"

"Your brother mattered, Frisco, but I can't let your revenge come at much further expense to this club, our finances, and our relationships on the streets. I want you to put yourself in my shoes. This is affecting our recruitment efforts, even all the way in Dallas. I understand you actually have the cajones to ask for more men and material?"

"Please, I need one more chance," Frisco almost pleaded in desperation. This conversation was going worse than he had feared. "I promise you, I will succeed very soon in my revenge. I feel the blessings of Santa Muerte still upon us. She has only been testing our dedication."

"We will give you half of what you requested, and we have convinced the Hondurans to still cast their lot with you, for now." Geraldo stressed the last two words there. "This is your final chance and it's more than you deserve, to tell you the truth. Many of our charters have already met today and we have come to a decision. Good, I'm glad you didn't interrupt me this time. In case you wonder why you were not part of this discussion, we felt that would have been…what do they say in business? A conflict of interest, for you to have a part in this vote. If these problems up there repeat themselves, we have decided to withdraw our support for the war. Do you understand this clearly?"

Frisco was at a sudden loss for words.

"Now is the time to speak, Frisco," Geraldo said, looking up at Pablo.

"Si, I understand, and I appreciate the help you have offered me."

"Good, now I hope our next conversation is more pleasant."

"Our next conversation will be when I bring John Teller's bloody kutte into the national meeting."

Geraldo ignored the last part and hung up the phone.

"I've never had to have a talk like that before," he said to Pablo. "Thank you for the advice you have given me. You have taught me a lot, and I value your input greatly."

"I'm only here to help you, Geraldo," Pablo said. "You see, people like Frisco, their heart may be in the right place, but all they know is the village and the streets. That's what sets us apart. We are businessmen. That is why we're sitting in this beautiful house while Frisco will never leave the barrio. Trust me. If he can't accept the new direction we're taking this club, he will have to be left behind."

Geraldo smiled and looked around at all the things he could never have acquired south of the border. "You know, sometimes I do really fucking love this country."

CHARMING POLICE DEPARTMENT

"The Chief just got off the phone with Oakland PD about the guys who paid me that visit at home," Unser said to JT as they walked to the back of the police station, smoking a cigarette.

"And?" JT asked, hoping there was something useful.

"Only one of them had any kind of records whatsoever. He was a Honduran national whose tourist visa expired four years ago. We believe the others are illegal immigrants who had managed to stay completely off the grid. The markings on all the dead men identified them as members of the MH-11 street gang, stands for Mara Hondurana, or Honduran crew. MH-11 works closely with the Mayans MC both on the street and in prison."

"Drugs, guns?"

"Both," Unser said. "Think the Mayans partnership with the Weather Underground, just on a far bigger scale. Thanks to their Mayan connections, MH-11 is now one of the most well armed gangs in Oakland, and they're able to expand the narcotics they're selling on the street corners. At the same time, their members protect one another in prison. We believe in the case of what happened here, the Mayans used them as hit men since they needed extra muscle and some deniability. They've done that in the past."

"How powerful is MH-11, and what other gangs have an allegiance to the Mayans?" JT asked. This was definitely not good. It seemed like no matter how many the Sons killed, the Mayans could throw more men at them. Kind of like the North Vietnamese, JT thought darkly.

"Who knows?" Unser replied. "There's another thing. That agent, Tasker, he's visiting me just about every other day now, trying to get updates from me and the chief. He's also threatening to attend the next city council meeting."

"He's not even a Charming resident. Nobody needs to even let that bastard speak! Plus, most of us are quite satisfied with the law enforcement we have right now, officer."

"Real funny," Unser said with a smirk as he took a sip of coffee. "He's going to be waving his badge around, and the council may give him a few minutes as a courtesy. Going to be a lot of bullshit about how the club is a bad influence on the town and is responsible for all this violence, asking them to turn y'all in."

"Then he obviously doesn't know a thing about how we do things out here. This ain't fucking San Francisco. Here in small town USA, here in Charming at least, we stick up for one another."

"I know, JT, but all he needs is a few people on his side and if this bloodbath doesn't stop, nothing's guaranteed anymore. They may even force the state to disband our entire department and have us absorbed into San Joaquin County sheriff's jurisidction, or even send the state police here. We need this handled."

DANA POINT, ORANGE COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

Pablo Hinojosa and the other members of the Mayans' San Diego charter made their typical stop in Dana Point on their way back from the meeting in Los Angeles. This time, he and his crew stopped at a Del Taco location on Pacific Coast Highway offering a partial view of the azure waters of Doheny State Beach. Pablo and his secretary, Marcus Alvarez, took a seat in the corner of the Cal-Mex fast food restaurant after getting their orders from the counter. It was a different world than Montebello, surrounded by vacationing families, many with beach towels, swim trunks and Panama hats.

The Mayans' kuttes were enough to intimidate the other customers enough so that nobody sat within earshot of them. Marcus practically grew up in the club. He was born in Juarez but was smuggled across the border as a young child and therefore identified the barrios of San Diego as his home. While San Diego's Hispanic ghettos were relatively tame compared to those in many other cities, his father was killed in a drive-by-shooting during a particularly violent Cinco de Mayo weekend, a time when the various gangs all ran into other as the barrios celebrated the holiday. His mother sought justice a little too hard and was murdered a year later in a crime yet to be solved. Following this, Marcus was taken in by the Mayans charter that was widely feared and respected in the neighborhood.

"I see that you're worried, mano," Marcus said in a mix of English and Spanish as he unwrapped his burrito and took a sip of his Mountain Dew. "I honestly think Geraldo was very receptive to your message, or as much as he could be in such a public setting. And you were telling me the phone call went pretty good too."

"Yes, Geraldo and I see eye to eye," Pablo said, taking a deep breath and glancing out the window at the Pacific Ocean. "Some charters still sympathize with Frisco, especially the guys from El Paso."

"I can't say I don't understand what Frisco's going through," Marcus admitted. "To lose a brother in such a way, even if like you say it's because of the company that they chose to keep."

"Yes, I know," Pablo said, "But while revenge is important, survival is more important than that. Frisco and the rest of the Oakland charter may be willing to die, but we can't let them take this entire club down with them."

"Maybe it will end soon," said Marcus, "There are only so many of the Sons. Yes, many of them are American soldiers, but this isn't the army that fought on D-Day. They can't even defeat the fucking commie pinkos in Vietnam."

Pablo shook his head forcefully. "No, Marcus, no. You're making the same mistake, underestimating them like Frisco did. I'm sure Frisco thought the same when he got into that war. America is the strongest army in the world. If you look at each individual battle in Vietnam, the Americans have won every time. The only reason these soldiers haven't completely destroyed the enemy is because the government won't let them. Look what they've done even after the government and the American people stabbed them in their backs."

"There's no way Frisco will ever get it," Pablo continued. "His actions threaten not only his charter, but our club on a national level This is supposed to be the underworld, we are supposed to operate in the shadows and attract as little attention from the authorities as possible, not turn Charming into Saigon."

"So you feel there needs to new leadership in Oakland."

"Yes, and I have someone in mind. You, Marcus."

"Excuse me?" Marcus said in shock.

"Yes," Pablo said. "You're the kind of leader we need in this club. You know the streets, but you also know the system, and you understand how things work in America while Frisco only understands the old country. Here in San Diego, it will be many years before I retire, and as you know, there are several others in the line of succession. If you take over in Oakland, you will be the President."

OPEN RANGE STEAKHOUSE, CHARMING

It wasn't clear why Open Range Steakhouse decided to go for a West Texas theme given that the Central Valley itself was known for its cattle ranching. Maybe its owners just wanted to stand out from everything else in Charming. No matter what happened in his relationship with Megan, Open Range would always have a special spot in Thomas's heart as this was where he had first met her. Tonight they had actually wanted to go to a new sports bar, but that place was packed since the Raiders were playing the Baltimore Colts in one of the most highly anticipated games of the year.

"So you do come here even when you're not working!" Thomas said with a grin. It felt good to be here with her, where his gentle side could come out.

"Of course! Becca here always hooks me up with awesome discounts!" Megan said with a smile, motioning toward the blonde bartender working tonight. Thomas thought about the night they had first met right here, when she was getting a few drinks after work in her own restaurant. The fact that she was of half Wahewa descent and had lived on the Indian reservation helped keep the conversation going, as Thomas mentioned his familiarity with the place due to his dealings with the marijuana growers there.

"Still can't believe we met here when you weren't even waiting on me," Thomas said.

"I know!" she said with a happy smile.

Megan greeted Becca pleasantly as the bartender poured gave them some mixed cocktails. "Definitely your lucky night."

She took a sip and made a face at Becca, pretending to not like it. "Seriously, though, this shit's really been crazy here lately. I'm worried about you. And there's already rumors about the Feds getting involved here which is gonna be bad for both Charming and the reservation."

"What rumors?"

"There's been agents from various agencies on the reservation lately, or at least trying to enter, also rumors of our current BIA agents being replaced by a new team from out of state. I think they're going to try to use the marijuana operation against the tribe if Raging Bull tries to apply for a casino license."

A tribe in Minnesota was currently fighting a case in the federal courts that could lead to the legalization of casino gambling on Indian reservations nationwide.

"I thought the reservation's sovereign territory and the fucking men in suits don't have any authority there."

"Look, Thomas, you should know better than anyone that those bastards from Washington don't give a damn. And now with the Mexicans showing up all the way out here, that's even more government attention. Now I know why they call it the alphabet soup. All of those people are corrupt and can't be trusted. But what's going on with the Mexicans?"

"We certainly dealt them a good one, didn't we?" Thomas glanced at the TV and took a sip of his Coors Light.

"No, Thomas I'm serious about this. Now Frisco Martinez has even more reason for revenge. When is this going to end?"

Thomas remained silent, hoping she would change the subject, but she repeated herself. "Do you even see an end in sight?"

"I really don't know," he said as the bartender came with their appetizer order of potato skins loaded with bacon bits and cheddar cheese along with two Caesar salads.

"That's really reassuring," Megan said with some sarcasm in her voice. Thomas could tell that she was stressed over the recent events, and that it was beginning to put a strain in their relationship.

"Look, Meg, you're the one who further vouched for me with the tribe and got them to invest more in our operation."

"But that's just our seed money to get the hell out of here. Look, you and I have both been screwed over by the world. We weren't given the opportunities Charming's good ol' boy network has but we were both clear that this isn't the life we want. That's why I left the reservation, remember? Because I wanted more than that. I'm out here trying my best to make an honest living, because I don't want our kids to grow up like we did."

Conditions on the reservation certainly were harsh, both the federal government's shameful history of forcibly removing the Wahewa from their ancestral lands in the Lake Tahoe region to make way for white settlers in the 1849 California Gold Rush and the subsequent corruption and mismanagement of the BIA. Thomas himself was eventually disadvantaged, growing up with a father who was in and out of prison, who taught him more about crime than about anything legitimate. His mother had drank herself to death when he was a child.

Maybe that was partly why he identified with Megan so much when he first met her here as she was getting a drink after clocking out one night. At first, he was also desperate for legitimacy, but now, in the middle of this war he wasn't sure if it could ever become a reality. But he had to be optimistic.

"When this is over, we'll take part of the Mayans' business and in a few years I'll be out." Obviously he had not discussed the spoils of war with JT, but it had been running in his mind, as well as in the minds of several of the other club members, unknown to JT.

"And JT will just let you leave, just like that? We're talking about a biker gang here."

"Once this Mexican business is handled, and we finish our revenge against the Weathermen, he might disband the club himself. And actually, knowing JT as I do, he'll probably let me sit out that last part." There was something else JT had never said before. He had initially thought about getting the club to take over the drug distribution business from the Weathermen in Berkeley, but now maybe some of the Mayan operations would be more profitable. Yes, he hated the Weathermen and what they did to the soldiers, but he had ulterior motives for joining the club, as did several of the others.

"I just don't want you to get hurt," Megan said, her voice softening up. "I don't regret going legitimate at all. It's what my parents would have wanted me to do. I make decent money here and do enjoy coming to work most days and I've already been able to afford my own apartment in town. If the tribe does get a casino, I can be a cocktail waitress and make even more, save up enough money to finish my degree. I just don't think it's worth it for you to take all these risks, Thomas. You and me, together, that's all that really matters. I'm happy with what we have."

Thomas didn't want to have this conversation right now so he simply nodded. "It will all be over in a few weeks, and we live happily ever after. I promise." He ordered another shot and they placed their orders for their entrees. He leaned over and kissed her, Becca the bartender cheering her friend on. "Let's not worry about that right now and just have a good time tonight."

OPEN RANGE STEAKHOUSE PARKING LOT

Benito Chavarria and three MH-11 gangsters left the restaurant about twenty seconds after Thomas and Megan closed out their tab and paid for their dinner up at the bar. Benito and the Hondurans sat at different places in the steakhouse, with all of them keeping an eye on the couple from different angles even as they pretended to be caught up in their own conversations or on the college football game playing on the TV.

Unknown to them, JT, who had disguised himself in a sports jersey and a Las Vegas baseball cap knew they were watching. It was the two Hondurans who sat at a table in the bar section that caught his attention first. They acted too excited about the game on TV with their eyes glued on the footage coming in from Baltimore's Memorial Stadium. The futbol that Hondurans were obsessed about wasn't the American kind, and their reactions to the touchdowns and tackles were always a few seconds after the crowd around them, like they didn't really know what was going on yet wanted to blend in. He then saw their eyes constantly dart back and forth to where Thomas and Megan were sitting.

He also saw that the two men made contact with Benito and the third Honduran gangster, who sat in a booth beneath some clichéd Texas decorations. He sent one of the prospects in to snap some secret pictures and quickly showed them to Unser, who was parked a block away in his official police vehicle.

"So this spy shit's really paying off?" Unser asked.

"They're not KGB quality stuff, I can tell you that much," JT said, telling him about his observations of the guys watching the football game. "Shit, the commie infiltrators in Saigon were better than that." He handed Unser the pictures. "Hopefully you're able to tell me who these guys are."

Unser looked at them and compared them with police files provided by his friends in Oakland. "I'll be damned! This one's a big fish. His name's Benito Chavarria, he's the Secretary of the Mayans' Oakland charter!"

"Shit, right under our noses. They have some balls coming right here to our own. They're watching Thomas and his old lady, they got some shit planned. I know it. Shhh, they're coming."

JT looked toward the entrance of the restaurant and saw Benito and the other Mayans emerge from the front doors past a gaggle of late night diners still streaming in. He got back into his car, where Piney and Clay were already waiting while Otto was waiting outside.

"You sure you don't need the backup?" Otto asked, keeping his voice down.

"No, we got this. Just make sure Thomas and his old lady get home safe."

Otto nodded and walked toward the side of the neon-lit parking lot where the motorcycle spots were located, putting on his helmet.

JT saw Benito and his men glanced several times toward Thomas and Megan before getting into their own vehicle.

"Those other bastards will probably try to give us trouble," Clay said, "Better we take care of them elsewhere. Pretty sure another shootout in the middle of a busy parking lot's going to be the straw that breaks the camel's back."

"No, the moment we grab our targets, they'll have a new priority, remember," JT said. He still can't believe how far he'd gone, from planning the logistics of military operations in Vietnam to street ambushes in Charming.

Back in the jungle, he was fighting for his country and to make the world safe for democracy as Washington had presented it, until the federal government realized that going to war might not have been worth it and were more than ready to abandon the soldiers fighting it. Here, this fight was personal, for his own survival and the survival of his closest friends.

Benito and two of the Mayans got into his car as the others got into an old pickup truck with the instruction to maintain contact and pick up Thomas's tail in case Benito himself was lost in the traffic or had to pull over to avoid suspicion from Thomas or Megan.

"I still can't believe you tried to eat that fucking steak without a knife, Eduardo!" Benito said to one of the others in the car.

"Well, thank you for teaching me the American ways and the right way to eat gringo food, you fucking gabacho," the Mayan named Eduardo said, poking fun at the fact that Benito wasn't sufficiently Mexican enough in their opinion due to his American upbringing in Los Angeles. "I can't believe the gringos eat this shit, and to think my bitch was going to cook some carne asada tonight. Being called away from her carne asada for this American junk."

"And she'll have it waiting for you when you get home," Benito said with a hint of impatience at Eduardo's complaining. Joining the Mayans, Eduardo knew he could be called away at a moment's notice, especially since their charter was in the middle of a gang war. Benito kept his eyes on Thomas and Megan as they walked over to his vehicle. They saw him open the passenger door for her in a chivalrous move.

"Ah, what a gentleman," Eduardo scoffed. It was his old lady in Oakland who doted on him and catered to his every whim, not the other way around. This was the opposite of machismo, he thought, and it made him disrespect the Americans even more. A real man would never behave in such a fashion, Eduardo thought to himself.

"Even that pathetic gringo has a bitch, Benito," said the Honduran gangster in the passenger seat, "Maybe you need to find one. Then maybe you'll be a little less uptight. Or maybe not."

Suddenly, there was a crashing sound and the passenger site window shattered as a fist came through and punched the Honduran in the side of the head. The same happened in the other windows too. Benito, who was in the driver's seat, and Eduardo who was in the back were also taken aback as they saw the figures of JT and Clay outside the vehicle, with Clay preparing to strike again. The final Mayan in the back also surrendered quickly.

The Honduran, however had far quicker reflexes and reached for the gun in his leather jacket, however Clay took a pocketknife and slashed his throat several times. The man gagged as blood splattered against the windshield. JT cursed silently to himself but at least the Honduran didn't manage to squeeze off any shots. He looked up, praying that the sound of the breaking car windows didn't attract any attention. Fortunately the sound of the music coming from the establishment seemed to have covered it up. In fact, several patrons were drunkenly singing along to "To See My Angel Cry" by Conway Twitty on the outside deck as they drank more of their beers.

JT pointed his gun at Benito as Piney aimed his own weapon at Eduardo and the other Mayan's heads. "These are both silenced, so I won't hesitate to kill you both right now if you try to make a move like your amigo here.

"You won't live long to regret this, you fucking imbecile," Benito said.

"Well at least this one speaks American," Clay said derisively.

"Chinga tu madre, cabron," Eduardo said defiantly and spat in Piney's face. "Fuck your mother!"

Piney grabbed his head and slammed it against the door, almost knocking Eduardo out, the man moaning incoherently in Spanish.

"You want to play more games with us, Benito?" Clay said. Benito's eyes widened at the mention of his name.

"Yeah, we know you. You know a lot about you and your little wetback buddies here, crawling all over our town."

"What do you want from me?" Benito asked, some of the macho cockiness gone.

JT and Piney removed the dead Mayan's body from the passenger seat and placed it in the back next to Eduardo. "I want you to drive," JT said.

Author's Note: Hope y'all noted the thing about the Baltimore Colts playing the game back in 1970. How they left Baltimore and went to Indianapolis is to this day one of the most scandalous stories in sports IMO. Now of course the Ravens have replaced them.