Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given (2010) (21 page)

Just as I told Darlene she was going back to jail, Bobby’s mother and oldest brother walked through the door. They were looking for anything they could find with his handwriting on it. She wanted something from her baby to hold. When the mother saw Darlene in my office, she started calling her every horrible name in the book. Who could blame her? I sat the mother down and told her about my daughter Barbara Katie. I assured her that I understood her pain because I had lost a child too. I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone in her grief.

“He’s with you now and forever.” I started telling her all of the words of comfort that were said to me when I got the news about Barbara Katie, hoping they would relieve her anguish at losing her son. Bobby’s mother looked up and asked Beth if she could see Darlene. She wanted to talk to her. Beth was hesitant at first, but she wasn’t
going to deny Bobby’s mother this simple request. If the meeting became heated, we knew we could handle it.

To my surprise, they hugged each other and cried in each other’s arms. Darlene was cuffed at first, but when I realized what was happening, I uncuffed her so she could hold Bobby’s mother.

“When you were hungry, didn’t I feed you? When you were cold, didn’t I clothe you? I knew you and Bobby were doing wrong things, yet I treated you like you were my own daughter.” The mother had her hands on Darlene’s shoulders. “Look at what your drugs have done. Don’t let your addiction kill anyone else. Get yourself clean, Darlene. If you do, I will always be there to hold you, help you, feed you, clothe you, and whatever else you need. If you do this, know you can come back to me.”

I was moved to tears as Bobby’s mother held Darlene that night in my office. I was stunned by her show of mercy, her generosity of heart. I could only hope and pray that Darlene heard the words that were spoken to her, that she’d somehow find her way to get sober and clean up her life so Bobby’s death would not be in vain. I drove her to jail later that night with hope in my heart but doubt on my mind that she would find her way.

It’s hard to know there are people in the world who, despite every chance given, will not make it. I get so discouraged and disappointed by them. It’s hard for me to hear that someone I had high hopes for is back in jail…or worse. It’s too sad to think about, so I try to avoid the “where are they now” conversations. I make it a point not to become friends with the people I bond, so I can’t possibly get dragged down to where they are. I pray for all of them, but I try not to think about them after they’re off the bond. It’s the only way I can leave my work in the office at the end of the day. I owe it to my family to be present for them, to be there for their needs and comfort them when they need it from their dad and when Beth wants it from me as a husband.

If you’re struggling with drugs or addiction, think about Bobby and Darlene’s story. Don’t let your situation take you down to the point of no return. Ask for help or be willing to accept it if someone you love
tries to tell you it’s time to make some changes. There is absolutely no reason someone has to die to understand how precious life is. When you’re in the gutter, there’s no place to go but up. Ask yourself, “What’s the worst-case scenario? If I keep doing drugs, what will happen? If I stay in this abusive relationship, what will happen? If I keep acting recklessly, making foolish choices and hanging out with the wrong crowd, what will happen to me?” In the end, I think you’ll find that none of those answers work in your favor. In fact, they all lead you toward the same result. Do something now to change your circumstances before it’s too late. If you don’t know how to take that first step, you can contact a local help line by calling 411. All calls are anonymous and will be held in the strictest of confidence. The help line will be able to guide you to a safe place in your community where you can get the help you want, need, and deserve. I often remind myself that writing bail means having to watch my heart. If a client jumps on me, it feels like one of my own kids is running. It hurts my feelings so bad when one of my clients jumps bail. I get mad at first, but only until I catch him.

So many of the cases I’ve been a part of don’t have happy endings. I’ll sometimes spend hours explaining to my clients all of the reasons they need to get their lives together, much like you see me do on the show after we make an arrest. Those conversations in the backseat are real—they reflect who I am. I want these men and women to know that they have it in their power to change the way things are in their lives. Most of them won’t end up doing anything about it, but at least I planted the first seed toward change if they want it.

Women who jump surprise me more than men. More female clients discover the straight and narrow path than males, although there have been some memorable exceptions. When I first started bounty hunting, I pretty much worked alone. I didn’t want anyone along for the ride or to share in the glory. I found it sometimes made things easier for me, especially when tracking down a female fugitive.

Back in the day, one of the most memorable women I ever went after was a girl named Susan. I was chasing her for a buddy of mine. I’d spent a couple of days looking for her around Denver, when someone
tipped me off on where she was staying. When I called the number my contact provided, Susan answered the phone.

“Hey, baby. How ya doing?” I asked in my coolest, sexiest voice.

Susan didn’t recognize me at all. Why would she? We had never actually met. I played like we had, though. I told her we hung out down at her favorite bar, the Blue Café. Susan suddenly realized, or thought she had, exactly who I was.

“Are you the guy with the beard and the blue eyes?” she asked.

“No, honey. That ain’t me. I have the long blond hair.”

“Ohhh. Right. Yes. Man, that was a couple of weeks ago. I was so hammered that night I could barely remember my own name!” And then she began shamelessly flirting. The more she talked, the less I had to. And boy, did she start to sweet talk me. That’s when I knew she was mine for the taking. When I asked her out on a date for the next night, she immediately said yes.

I showed up at her door the next day looking sharp and ready for the night. I had a photo of Susan from her bondsman so I could be certain I had the right chick before arresting her. The moment she opened the front door, I knew it was her. I told her I thought we’d catch a movie at the local drive-in. It seemed like a good idea. Given the conversation we’d had the night before, I didn’t think she’d mind. I was eager to get her out to the truck, but then her mother came to the front door to meet me. I had to be polite, like I was excited to be taking out her daughter. After a few minutes of small talk, I took Susan by the arm and walked her to my truck. I opened the passenger door and did all of the gentlemanly things I would have done if this had been a real date. Just as I walked around to get into my vehicle, I noticed her brother walk up to the driver’s side door. He was wearing army fatigues and looked like a real killer.

“Be cool with my sister, man.” I could tell he was being serious.

“I will,” I said. I backed out of her driveway and headed to the drive-in. As we drove away, I asked Susan about her brother.

“Your brother sure seems protective. What was he doing at your house?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a little trouble with the law right now. I’m on the run and I wanted to be sure you weren’t a cop.”

I just about swallowed my tongue thinking she might be on to me. About three minutes into our ride, I pulled over.

“What are you doing?” Susan asked.

“This ain’t no date and you’re under arrest, you bond-jumping bitch!” I yelled, quickly slapping the cuffs on her. That’s when I realized where I had chosen to pull over. There’s a portion along Highway 85 between Brighton and Denver that all bounty hunters and bondsmen know because it’s the darkest stretch of road on the route. I’ve always referred to that stretch as the Brighton Triangle because so many accidents and incidents happen there. I always held my breath as I made my way through that area, hoping nothing would happen. Unfortunately, this was where I’d chosen to stop. I thought Susan was secure as I sped toward the Adams County jail, but before I knew it, that crazy bitch came right out of her cuffs! She started beating on me while I was driving seventy miles an hour down the highway, taking wild swings with her fists at my head and neck.

“What are you going to do now, you mofo?” she screamed at the top of her voice.

I started swerving in and out of traffic trying to avoid both her fists and oncoming cars at the same time. She finally connected and hit me pretty hard with the cuffs, and then she did it again, over and over. I was in trouble. Finally I thought,
Lord, I don’t want to hit this woman, but what am I supposed to do?
God told me to settle her down. I pulled my truck over to the side of the road, pulled her out, subdued her like a man, and slapped the cuffs back on her wrists. This time, however, I made sure they were on good and tight. I wanted to be sure there was no way she could bust out of them until the cops themselves took them off her wrists. I was pretty sure there would be a mark when they removed them.

By the time we got to the jail, Susan was screaming to anyone who would listen that I had beat her. She already had a black eye when I picked her up, but now she was insistent that her injuries were from
me. The officers sequestered me while they tried to get the story from Susan. She was pushing for assault charges, but it was her word against mine. Thankfully, I remembered the photo her bondsman had given me that was in the glove box of my truck. She had the same black eye in the picture taken two weeks before I picked her up. Once I showed her mug shot to the cops, I was off the hook.

That was the last time I picked up a female fugitive alone. I couldn’t afford to be accused of assault or worse. It wasn’t long after that bust that Beth started coming with me on all my hunts, especially when I was looking for female fugitives. The first time I asked Beth to come on a bounty hunt with me, I asked her to drive me to the house of the woman I was looking for. I was partying and in no condition to drive myself. Of course, this was back in 1988, before I got clean and sober.

At first, Beth refused, but I was somehow able to convince her to drive by the address one time or I would have to do it myself. We were slowly passing by the house when I spotted the woman I was looking for in the yard. I leapt out of the still-moving car and started to chase her. She ran into the house and out the back door. She finally locked herself in a corner apartment down the block. I had her. When I kicked in the door, it accidentally hit her friend in the head. Fearing I was getting close, the woman I was chasing ran again. This time, she went out the back door and into a junkyard behind the apartment building, where she hid in a doghouse.

“I’m out of here, Duane. I don’t want any part of this!” Beth was yelling at me as I went to grab the woman.

Just then the police showed up and told us to freeze. They wouldn’t let me capture my fugitive. Instead, they arrested both Beth and me.

In Colorado, the law states that anyone who enters and remains in a dwelling to commit a felonious act is guilty of first-degree burglary. Beth and I were booked and thrown in jail. I kept telling Beth, “I told you we were always going to have fun times!” I thought the whole thing was funny. Beth did not.

“You’re nothing but trouble, Duane Chapman!” Beth said.

When we finally went to court over the arrest, Beth’s charges were dropped to a “dog at large” offense. No joke. It amounted to walking a dog without a leash. I don’t know if the district attorney was trying to be funny or was just sending me a message. Either way, all I could do was laugh. My punishment was to help the Adams County Sheriff’s Department track down some of their fugitives for thirty days. I had the best time showing them how to bring in these guys. I taught them that they can lie if they have to in order to bring someone in. I showed the department some of my trade secrets, and over the course of the month we brought in two dozen fugitives.

I know there’s a world of people who are confused, hurting, and need the help and guidance of a guy like me. Every time I sit next to a captured jump in the back of my Suburban, I understand that I have a captive audience of one. If I can reach that guy or girl in the few minutes we spend together on their way to jail, all of the stress, effort, and energy expended in finding them becomes worth it and far more valuable than the price of their bond.

I arrested a guy a few months back who was disappointed to find out the police were going to escort him to jail instead of me.

“Dog, why don’t I get my ride?” he asked.

I was taken aback because I remembered something Tim Storey said to me while I was fighting for my freedom and feeling pretty low about myself. There were a few times I wanted to throw in the towel back then and just pack it in. After he’d used his best preacher techniques to get me to see that helping people was my true calling in life, I still wasn’t convinced I had what it took to be a leader and role model.

And then Tim looked me in the eyes and said, “Who is going to give them the ride, Duane? Who will give them the cigarette and who will give them ‘the talk’?” When the preacher posed those questions to me, I realized he was right. If not me, then who? Whether I realized it or not, I was leading a backseat ministry, one ride at a time.

I looked at my fugitive for a minute without saying a word. I
wanted to be certain of his intentions. Was he trying to split? Was he avoiding the inevitable, or was he genuinely interested in what this old Dog had to say? I ran my hand across my chin and said, “You want to ride with me?”

Handcuffed and shackled, the guy looked up and said, “I’ve been waiting two weeks for that, Dog.”

A ride with the Dog was all he wanted.

“Load him up,” I said. “You’ve got your ride, son.”

I lit a cigarette and placed it in his mouth so he could grab a smoke before we took him in. We talked nonstop all the way to the county jail. He shook his head as I spoke about getting off drugs and manning up for his wife and baby. I told him he had to quit making stupid choices so he could start living as the smart man I could spot inside of him. This guy wasn’t a stupid fool. He was just making stupid foolish choices. As we spoke, I didn’t judge him or instill any false hope in him for his future. I assured him he’d be cooked if he didn’t stop the crap and get himself together—now. Not tomorrow, or the next day, but right now.