Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given (2010)

by Chapman, Duane Dog

  “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.

  “I’ve been there, boy. I know what you’re going through. It’s a lame excuse to say you ‘can’t’ do something when you have your health and a family that loves you no matter what. It’s lazy behavior, for sure, but you’re not handicapped by anything other than yourself. This is your wake-up call. You either answer it now or pay for it later and for the rest of your life. You’re being given another shot at things, but only if you take the risk to make the right decision. The choice is yours. What’s it going to be, brotha?”

  As we approached the jailhouse, I could tell he was scared and feeling sick from coming down off the drugs. “Remember this feeling, son. Hold on to it so you never find yourself here again,” I said.

  As the outer steel door slammed shut and the young man was no longer in my sight, all I could do was hope and pray he heard the calling. The second I’ve got them in the backseat, they’re no longer a fugitive, jump, or the poor bastard who thought he’d be the hero to outrun the Dog—they’re my children. I just want what’s best for them. I’m the “fix it” guy. My true calling is to inspire those who don’t believe in themselves that th
ey are worthy of a second, third, fourth, or even fifth chance in life. I want to give them the hope and inspiration that it is never too late to turn things around.

  CHAPTER 18

  Kiliohu Williams

  There’s a famous saying, “The difference between a wise man and a fool is a wise man learns his lessons from other people’s mistakes and a fool only learns from his own.” One of my goals in writing this book is to help you avoid living as a fool by listening to someone who used to be one. I’ve been there, done that. There’s not much I haven’t been through over the years that hasn’t made me stronger, smarter, and wiser.

  Thankfully, my life has gotten progressively better every year since I went to prison in Huntsville. I still have pitfalls and stumbles, but despite all I have been through, I am a really happy and fortunate man. I am grateful for my family, career, friends, and last but certainly not least, I am most appreciative for the opportunity I have that allows me to reach so many other people. I am humbled by how many fans we have. Looking back, there have been some trying times. I find comfort in knowing the Lord has a plan and that He would never give me more than I could handle. Even so, he has laid a load on my back over the years. Whenever things aren’t going my way, I take that as a sign that it is time to make a change.

  Perhaps you’ve been wondering about your own life—you know, like whether or not it’s time to make some important personal decisions to help you live at your very best. Maybe you’ve been thinking about moving, changing jobs, getting out of a bad relationship, or quitting drugs. These decisions are never easy, but they’re worth the pain to get to the next level of freedom in your life where you can thrive, grow, and become a healthier, happier person.

  As parents, we have to show our children love and patience and provide clear boundaries on what is acceptable and what is not. Beth and I have an abundance of overflowing forgiveness in our hearts when it comes to our children. The Bible says that if you bring children up in the ways of the Lord, they will never depart thereof. I once heard a story about a defiant young boy who refused to listen to his mother’s pleas to follow the Lord. His mother was dying in the hospital when she begged her son to be with the Lord so she could go in peace. She uttered that wish with her last dying breath. She never saw her son grow up to become Billy Graham.

  The Bible doesn’t promise we will see the final plan, but it assures us it exists. I’ve spent numerous nights dreaming of my life twenty years from now and beyond. I’ve seen my son Tucker standing over my grave crying and saying he is sorry for the mistakes he made. Someday I hope he comes to realize that what he did was wrong, that what he did hurt me almost as much as dying. Even if he doesn’t come around before I’m six feet under, I have forgiven him in my heart. I want him to know I still love him. In fact, I was finally able to say those words to him on his birthday this year. A police officer inside the prison allowed me to say three important words to my son over the phone.

  “I love you.” I said. I passed the phone away before I could hear Tucker respond. I didn’t need to hear him. I only wanted him to know that he is loved.

  When our children fall off their path, they’re still our children—our babies. You have to forgive them and hope they do better.

  No matter how bad you think things are in your life, know this: There is always someone else out there who has it worse than you do. You can’t sit around and make excuses for not implementing changes once you know there are options. We have a young man who works for us named Justin. He was my personal assistant for a couple of years and has looked after Gary Boy since the first season of Dog the Bounty Hunter. Our family grew very fond of Justin. He wasn’t just an employee, he had become a member of our family. I even referred to him as my nephew. We even invited him to be on a couple of episodes of the show during our first season on the air. After a while, Justin’s ego grew a little bigger than his role. He began acting pretty cocky with all of us and was getting a little too big for his britches.

  One day, Beth found a burn hole from one of Justin’s cigarettes in one of the cup holders in her car. When Beth went off on him, Justin decided to fight back by very aggressively mouthing off.

  Mouthing off to Beth is never a good idea.

  Justin started calling Beth all sorts of names before storming off and punching a wall right in front of Leland. As a trained boxer, Leland knows better than to show his temper by hitting a wall, so he confronted Justin. He told him how immature and destructive Justin’s behavior was, reminding him that Beth had told him not to smoke in her car countless times. When Beth came outside and saw Justin’s swollen broken hand, she essentially told him he was no longer useful to us on bounty hunts. She explained that he wouldn’t be able to drive a car, make a fist, or grab his can of Mace on a hunt until he was fully healed. He hurt himself, which meant he was off the show.

  Leland drove Justin to the hospital to get his hand fixed. We thought he’d get it set in a cast and hopefully be on the road to recovery so he could quickly rejoin the team. Several hours later, Beth noticed that Justin still hadn’t come back from the hospital. She began calling around to find him, but none of the hospitals had had a patient with his name come through their doors. Finally, the last place Beth called told her Justin had checked himself out hours ago. They had given him some pain pills and let him go without any other medical attention to his hand.

  We didn’t see Justin again for quite some time and didn’t hear from him for weeks, and then months. This was devastating to Gary Boy because Justin had become his confidant, friend, swimming partner, surfing pal, and all-around buddy. We called Justin’s mom, Moon, who had worked for our family for years but wasn’t employed by us at the time. We asked if she had heard from him, but she said she hadn’t. We all knew Justin had done something really dumb—he relapsed back into his old life of getting high and hanging out with the wrong friends who were enabling him further by encouraging him to do more drugs. The second the hospital gave him the dope, he was back to his old addict ways.

  Many addicts slip back into their addictions after something happens in their lives that causes them to take painkillers. They get that old familiar feeling again and slip right back. I’ve seen it a thousand times. And that’s exactly what happened with Justin.

  It turns out he went to visit some relatives in upstate New York. Unfortunately, those relatives weren’t the stable influence on Justin that Beth and I had been. They were enabling Justin’s habit. Worse yet, they began filling up his head with stories of how he should have been getting paid a lot more money to be on my show. They told him our ratings would plummet without him and the show would inevitably fail if we didn’t bring him back for season two, because he was the “real star” of the show.

  If enough people start telling you something, even if it isn’t true, chances are you’re eventually going to believe whatever it is they’re saying. So Justin bought into their rhetoric—hook, line, and sinker. He started playing the money game with our producers. When they asked him where he thought the show could take him professionally, he said he wanted to do BVD underwear commercials, become a model, or become a singer.

  Wrong answer.

  You see, when the producers asked each of us the same question, Leland, Duane Lee, Beth, and I all answered exactly the same way. If the television show went away tomorrow, we’d all still be writing bail, bounty hunting, catching fugitives, and keeping our family business alive. We don’t want to be models or actors or pursue any other claim to fame. We are bounty hunters.

  The producers decided not to bring Justin back to the show. His family and their bad advice had basically talked him out of the greatest opportunity this young man had ever had. He wasn’t getting paid a lot of money—hell, none of us were back then—but at least he belonged to something. He was successful and blew it all over greed, jealousy, and what other people thought he should be doing.

  We let him come visit us on occasion, but it was difficult for all of us because we could phy
sically see he was having a hard time letting go. He had been on the show, had built a fan base, and suddenly it was all gone.

  Eventually, we had to distance ourselves from Justin because he was continuously making bad choices. I heard that he had moved to the Big Island and begun partying all the time. He was doing drugs and excessively drinking night after night. Although it hurt my heart to hear he had fallen so far off his path, I didn’t give it much mind because even though I still loved him, he was no longer any of our business. He was on an uncontrollable downward spiral that would eventually bring this young man to his knees—literally.

  Three years had gone by since we spoke to Justin or his mother. One night in 2008, Justin’s grandfather called to say his grandson had been in a pretty bad drunk driving accident. His car flipped over several times before he was thrown from it. Because he was driving late at night on a road that isn’t well traveled or well lit, he lay on the side of the road for a long time before coming to. The grandfather said he was being airlifted to Honolulu and asked if Beth and I would go to the hospital to make sure they didn’t cut off his grandson’s legs.

  Shortly thereafter, Justin’s mother, Moon, called crying and screaming for her son’s safety. Although we hadn’t spoken to her in some time, it didn’t matter. We were family, and family comes together in times of need. Beth immediately bought Moon a plane ticket to fly from Denver to Honolulu so she could be with her son and see him through this tragic situation.

  When we got to the hospital, Justin told me the last thing he remembered from that fateful night was jamming to some music and dancing in his seat. The next thing he recalled was waking up, hearing the sound of croaking coqui frogs all around him, and then being put on a stretcher and placed in a helicopter that was airlifting him to the nearest hospital.

  When Justin was in high school, he’d become well known because he had a sixty-four-inch vertical leap in basketball. He was the shining star of the Hilo High School basketball team. He was in every state championship and always made the all-star team. He was a terrifically funny kid, always making everyone laugh. He was Moon’s pride and joy because he was her child who had the potential to go the furthest in his life. Sadly, it had all been wiped out in that one night. He suffered massive damage to his legs. His ankle was severed from the bone and the rest of his leg. They had to reattach his foot and leg below the knee. His face had been severely cut, with stitches going all across his eyelid. He was lucky to still have his eye, as it had almost been pulled from its socket. His hand was also very badly damaged.