Former Aryan Brotherhood member shot in the face while trying to leave gang

Therese Apel | The (Jackson, Miss.) Clarion-Ledger

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If you want out of the Aryan Brotherhood, like so many other gangs, you have to be willing to pay the ultimate price.

"It takes a willingness to say, 'OK, I'm ready to die,'" said Thomas Engelmann, a former member of the Aryan Brotherhood of Mississippi. "It takes that person saying, 'OK, I don't care if I lose my life tomorrow, I want out.'

Or maybe lose your vision.

"If an AB member wants out, they might as well just go hang themselves," he said.

Engelmann knows.

Formerly high-ranking in the ABM, Engelmann had been trying to find a way out for a while when two prospective members — Brett Davis, 29, and Andrew Walters, 27, both of Picayune — were intent on giving him that way, permanently.

They followed him, pulled up next to him on I-20 in June 2016 and shot him in the face.

The two white faces had stuck out as they circled his predominantly black neighborhood. Assuming they were there to rob him, Engelmann left his house and got behind the men. He ended up with photos of them and of their truck and tag. Then he left, and they fell into traffic behind him.

"Nobody ever thinks to themselves, 'Today I am going to be shot in the face while I drive down the interstate,'" Engelmann said.

His car careened off the road and into the overgrown grass and, unable to see, he was able to slam on the brakes with both feet, narrowly missing a light pole.

"I knew I'd been shot, but I didn't know by who," he said. "I knew I was blind, but I didn't know why. My brain wouldn't let me put it together. I was like, 'Why can't I see?' And I'm trying to wipe whatever's in my eyes out, and I didn't realize my face is blown up."

The first story released by police was that the shooting appeared to be a road rage incident.

A few seconds after stopping the car, Engelmann could hear a man's voice telling him to cut off the ignition. He didn't know if the person was his shooter or not, but he decided to take some risks since his life was on the line.

He told the man the unlock code to his phone and that he had pictures of his shooters.

"I don't know who that person was, even to this day," he said. "That person, no matter what, is an angel in my book."

The man asked him if he was praying. He said that he was.

"He told me, 'Good, you need to. It's bad,'" Engelmann said.

He found himself praying — not for physical saving, he said — but for forgiveness "for not making it out of the criminal lifestyle that had shaped so much of my life."

The gang life, for Engelmann, started two years after he was taken into the custody of the Mississippi Department of Corrections on an armed robbery conviction.

"I joined because I had a broken home. Most of my family is dead, and I have no siblings. I wanted a family," he said. "Everyone in prison is already attacking everyone, so it's good to have someone who has your back, who can say, 'I know what you're going through, bro.'"

According to the Department of Justice, the ABM is the Mississippi branch of the Aryan Brotherhood, the violent, whites-only, prison-based gang with members and associates operating inside and outside of state penal institutions. The ABM has been known to engage in racketeering activities, including murder, attempted murder, kidnapping, assault, money laundering, firearms trafficking, and trafficking in marijuana and methamphetamine, both inside and outside correctional facilities.

To be considered for ABM membership, a person must be sponsored and serve a probationary term of at least six months. He or she is required to sign a “prospect compact,” swear an oath of secrecy and declare lifetime allegiance to the ABM. In Engelmann's case, he joined expecting to have to give 15 years of active service in the gang.

Because Engelmann had watched the gang operate in prison for two years, he thought he had some idea of what he was getting into. Since the ABM works with black gangs in many criminal enterprises — "Everything. You can read what you want into that," Engelmann said — he didn't feel like the racist history of the group would be a factor.

Assistant Rankin County District Attorney Marty Miller, who handled Engelmann's case, said the gang dynamic in Mississippi is very different than in many other places across the country.

"Mississippi is completely dysfunctional to the original gang model. In other cities, you'll have gang tags on a building and another gang's tag right across the street," he said. "And you don’t cross the street; it’s very territorial. Here, the Aryan Brotherhood will run with Gangster Disciples and Vice Lords if there’s money to be made. ABM is frowned upon by some of your West Coast Aryans because of the fraternization with African Americans."

Said Engelmann: "It's been glamorized, especially in Mississippi. I grew up with truckers and bikers. My mom rode with the Bandidos sometimes, so prison was kind of a notch in your belt, and AB was kinda glorified. But you join and you're like, 'Oh, sh-t, what did I join?'"

He didn't realize their promise of 15 years of service and you can leave just wasn't true.

"I did my 15 years, and they did not let me out. I knew too much, and I was a source of income. Remember the Brotherhood is organized crime. Why wouldn't they keep me?" Engelmann said. "That's what that boils down to. It's all about power, drugs and, of course, murder is in there. It's just like racism is on the butt end of it."

Engelmann knew a few years before he left prison that he didn't want to stay in the ABM, but at that time he felt he had sold his soul. So he decided to try to make the best of it.

"That's on me, but I had an eight-year mandatory prison sentence, so in all honesty, I thought I'd never get out of prison alive," Engelmann said. "So I did what I had to do; I led where I was supposed to lead."

He would use that leadership, he said, to try to avoid bloodshed and to keep peace among the gangs.

"Nobody can ever say that I was the one who said, 'Let's go to war.' I'd say, 'Hey, that doesn't benefit anybody,' and I'd try to talk it down," he said.

When Engelmann got out of prison, he found out the authorities were monitoring ABM meetings, so he went underground for about four years.

There comes a point where "you realize it's a bunch of power plays between power-hungry people inside there, and it's an internal struggle, so you hope you don't get caught up in their things that get everyone RICO charges and state charges and stuff," he said. "The ones that can't get out are trying to lay low and hope nobody notices them until they can move on, and that's the only way to do that safely."

Some, like Engelmann, are not allowed to fade out.

"It took me getting shot and bailing, leaving everything I own. I couldn’t fight for it or nothing, just had to leave everything to get out of (Mississippi)," he said. "For people like me, it's a black hole."

Engelmann said the ABM leadership knew that as a recovering addict he could be a good connection to pipe drugs into prison.

"I'm like, 'No, I'm trying to get away from that.' I had relapsed, and I wanted to get my life back together," Engelmann said.

That wasn't an option.

In 2016, Engelmann missed a meeting because his aunt had died. Usually, that's not a big deal.

"The head guys wanted to have an issue with it. They said they were going to take my position, and I'm like, 'Great, dude, that's more time for me, more time for my family, less money going to you,'" he said.

So he didn't show up for the next meeting, and a lot of other members followed his lead. The leadership took his position away, and shortly after that, police raided one of their meetings.

They blamed Engelmann, who says he knew nothing about the meeting since he was out of the loop without his leadership position.

"Look, man, I didn't tell nothing. I didn’t even know about the meeting, but if I did, you better know I know enough about everybody and everything, it would be more than just that one meeting," Engelmann said he told ABM leaders when they confronted him.

Officials say Johnny Fife, who at the time was one of the three main ABM leaders — known as "spokes" — had passed down an SOS, or "Smash on Sight," for Engelmann, which basically calls for him to be physically assaulted but not killed.

When Walters and Davis, both ABM prospects, drove up next to Engelmann, Walters shot him instead. Officials say it's not clear if they were trying to win points with the leadership or if they simply didn't want to get into a physical altercation with Engelmann.

In a car a ways behind Davis and Walters were Jeromy Clark and Doyle "Storm" Ferguson, both patch-wearing members of ABM.

"Everyone who actively wears a patch has proven they're willing to go to a vicious degree, unfortunately even me," Engelmann said.

Engelmann was rendered blind by the gunshot.

Davis and Walters were arrested by the Biloxi Police Department and U.S. marshals after Davis' 2001 Chevrolet Silverado was found in a store parking lot in Biloxi.

They initially told police the hit was over a $96 debt, Engelmann said. Throughout the investigation, he said the Pearl Police Department under former Chief Tim Sarratt, treated him fairly and with respect, even when it became clear he was a gang member.

Court officials said Engelmann did have an unpaid debt for a trailer to a family member of Fife.

After Engelmann's shooting, Fife, who is serving life in prison for armed robbery and other crimes, and Ferguson said there was no order to shoot Engelmann. Authorities got the feeling the leadership of the ABM was displeased with the shooting.

"The Aryans, it seems like they eat their own, and that has created a lot of distrust among the gang," Miller said.

All of those involved pleaded guilty, Miller said. Walters and Davis are serving 30 and 25 years, respectively, on charges of attempted murder. Clark and Ferguson are serving five years each for conspiracy.

Engelmann now lives in another state. He works with initiatives such as We Counter Hate and Life After Hate, aimed at helping slow the spread of hate speech and aiding people trying to get out of gangs and hate groups.

"I am an artist that can't draw anymore, a tattoo artist who can't tattoo, a welder who can't weld, and I'm certified in HVAC and can't do that," he said. "I'm using what I've done, what's happened to me, my knowledge, to help bring people out of the alt-right movement, out of violent gangs, out of the street life. It's not just about white, black, it's everybody, and teaching people that we all belong together."

Losing his sight has been terrible, he said, but he says he's grateful for a new lease on life. That experience helped him get clean and sober, plus, he says he has come to terms with what was done to him by a group who at one time called themselves his family.

"I didn't know the people that shot me, but I forgave them immediately, I never hated them," he said. "Not because I loved them as men, but I had just asked God to forgive me for so much, how can I hold a grudge against anybody?"

That compassion for those trapped in a life of crime is something he asks others to consider as well.

"I want people to understand that to dehumanize the people that are in the gangs, it's no better than the white supremacists dehumanizing other races, or the Nazis dehumanizing Jews. We don't need to exclude the gang members or the ex-cons coming out," he said. "We are all human beings in this together and we need to remember that. These are people. These are human beings. I'm a human being, I'm not just the guy that was shot in the face."

Follow Therese Apel on Twitter: @TRex21