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In the end, it was what the police always maintained it was -- the internal cleansing of an outlaw motorcycle club.
For more than three years in court, The Free Press has followed the saga of six men brought together under the biker symbol of the Fat Mexican.
The jury in the Bandidos murder trial based its verdicts on what it heard in court. But a lot more -- some of it serious, some of it silly -- went on between the accused, the lawyers and in the courthouse halls. Now, after the seven-month legal odyssey, some of those tidbits the jury never knew can now be told.
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Brett Gardiner's signal from the prisoners' dock in the courtroom was clear. He pointed to his eye. Then, he moved his hand like a mouth talking.
And then he pointed at me.
It was a tad jarring, but courtrooms often turn into small communities during long trials. Everyone falls into a routine. Everyone keeps the same seat. Everyone recognizes each other.
The accused often looked out at the public for familiar faces. Almost daily, some of the men would wave at me or nod.
There's lots to think about when you're on trial for eight counts of first-degree murder.
So what did Gardiner, the young biker prospect, want? Not wanting to cause concern for the security detail, or raise the suspicion of my media competitors at the trial, I signalled back the accused to talk to his lawyer.
Later, as I walked out of the court, he waved a piece of paper.
"Give it to your lawyer," I said.
Near the coffee lineup after sharing the potential scoop with Free Press colleague Kate Dubinski, Gardiner's lawyer, Christopher Hicks, gave me the piece of foolscap written in pencil.
It was a letter to the editor:
"My name is Brett Gardiner and I was wondering what had happen (sic) to the comic strip. I am currently residing at Elign (sic) Middlesex detention center, so you have to understand that it gets boring and redundant (sic) in this place so please understand that the best part of my day is opening up the today section of your paper and reading your comic strips mostly the Deflocked strip. I love reading that stupid sheep and I keep all the one's (sic) that I get my hands on, but know I have orderd (sic) your paper for one of those reasons. So please consider returning the comic's as they where (sic).
Sincerily (sic)
Brett Gardiner.
I passed on Gardiner's request to senior Free Press editors.
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Gardiner was portrayed at the start of the trial as a voracious reader, but by the end was held out as a man who thought pickles grew on trees.
He had one fan, a community college teacher, who came to court often. She said she was writing a book about him. When it was discovered she was sending him romantic novels without permission, she was banned for a short time.
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Gardiner wasn't the only man on trial who wanted to talk to The Free Press. Wayne Kellestine also wanted my attention, a few days after the Crown's star witness had told the jury about what happened the night the Toronto Bandidos were shot to death. Kellestine's lawyer, Clay Powell, approached me with a request: "Wayne wants a copy of Saturday's paper," he said. "He wants to see what you wrote."
I got a copy of the paper to the lawyer, but then came another request from Kellestine, delivered personally over the rail of the prisoners' box as I was leaving court.: "Do you think The Free Press would give me a complimentary 30-day subscription?" he asked with a smile.
Powell arranged a paid subscription.
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There were lots of complaints over the years as the men wended their way through the court system -- about the hard benches, the rate at which evidence was disclosed and more. They didn't like the food, either.
On the first day of pre-trial motions, the roast beef sandwiches brought in from the jail were deemed spoiled.
Superior Court Justice Thomas Heeney allowed the men to eat Covent Garden Market sandwiches (bought by their lawyers) in the prisoner's box, after getting no food in the courthouse cells during the lunch break.
An application was made to allow lawyers to bring in food for the accused. A bid was even made to make a jail-issued ham sandwich an exhibit to show it didn't have enough meat.
The accused were sick of the ham sandwiches they got for lunch in the court cells. But security had spotted one of them on video-tape, flushing some meat down the toilet.
The application was dropped.
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For a time, some defence lawyers refused to be searched by the OPP security detail.
Eventually, there was an agreement the lawyers wouldn't be searched as long as they didn't touch their clients.
Only lawyer Tony Bryant objected. He asked to be searched so he could shake hands with his client, Marcelo Aravena, to make him seem more "human."
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There were various mentions in evidence of the men eating a lot of pizza at Kellestine's farm.
The jury didn't know how the pizzas were found, nor their importance to the evidence. The pizzas came to the farm after some of the men had gone to a nearby native reserve to steal a trailer they believed had illegal cigarette inside. To their surprise, it wasn't smokes they found but 200 frozen pizzas, some carted back to Kellestine's.
During that trip, Sandham's truck bumper was scraped -- a tell-tale mark that would become part of the evidence.
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The toughest days in court were when grieving families were there. In the early going, some came often and would return for key evidence. Some would even testify. One was Joe Muscedere, brother of Bandidos Canada president John Muscedere, who described a phone chat he had with Kellestine after his brother went missing and was suspected dead. Jurors never heard how he met Kellestine years earlier: " 'Hi, I'm Wayne Kellestine. I sell drugs and I kill people.' "
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The atmosphere was tense when M.H., the Crown's star witness to the shootings, testified in exchange for witness protection and immunity. There were hard stares from the accused and a lot of note-taking. Once, M.H. couldn't go on because of chest pains and needed a CAT scan.
Aravena, who sometimes appeared to be asleep, was caught one day by OPP Const. Dean Croker doing more than just listening. Croker was part of the courtroom security detail. He reported he saw Aravena give M.H. the finger, by putting his middle digit up to his nose as if scratching it. He was also seen making a hand gun signal. "If it continues, steps will have to be taken," the judge said.
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The jury never heard both the Winnipeg and Toronto Bandidos were trying to start up illegal drug businesses. They failed.
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Powell, 73, a courtroom veteran, predicted when the jury was chosen in March the case would drag on until Halloween. Everyone, including the judge, scoffed. Seven months, more than 70 witnesses and 500-plus exhibits later, the end of October arrived and the trial ended. "I told you so," Powell said.