Courtesy of Dog Corp.
Once we had new legal representation, things began happening. Alberto Zinser and his team filed a new emparro, which is a legal document that has to be submitted in the Mexican courts for an extradition case. There was a lot riding on this new document. If the emparro was rejected, I would be on my way back to Mexico. My new legal team told me they’d strengthened our argument by clarifying the exact charges against me. Despite the lack of evidence and a charge to the contrary, the authorities down there still believed I had kidnapped Luster. For the first time since I fled Mexico in 2003, I finally had a hope of beating the charges.
By the end of July 2007, the statute of limitations on all criminal counts pending in Mexico had run out. So, on July 27 the Mexican judge from the First Criminal Court in Puerto Vallarta had no choice but to dismiss all charges and nullify the outstanding arrest warrants against Leland, Tim, and me. The order effectively canceled all pending charges. The ruling, however, was subject to appeal by the prosecution. If an appeal was sought, it had to be filed by August 8.
When I found out about the charges being dropped, it was as if I had just undergone a heart transplant. I felt like a brand-new man.
“Viva la Mexico!” I shouted as loud and proud as I could when I heard the good news.
That was a memorable week for many reasons. First, Mexico, and then the publication of my best-selling book, You Can Run, but You Can’t Hide. I had worked hard to tell my personal story and was excited about sharing my life’s journey with my many fans. I wasn’t sure what to expect or how the book was going to be received. When I went to a local bookstore at the Kahala Mall, near our home in Hawaii, to do my first book signing, I was stunned and rendered momentarily speechless by the masses of people who showed up in support of the Dog. Seeing the crowd that day reminded me of the time several years ago when I was in a helicopter with Tony Robbins on our way to one of his events. Tony looked down and asked why there was so much traffic. I told him there had to be an accident or something that shut down the streets. That’s when his lead man on the ground radioed up to tell us the crowd was there to see him. I never forgot that moment because that was the first time I vowed to myself that someday a crowd like that would be there to see me. Well, that day had finally come.
I had to fight back my tears as I stepped out onto the podium to greet all the people who had come to buy my book. I gave them a big shaka and then soaked in their love as they cheered. I hadn’t felt that good in years.
Even though we believed the news from Mexico was good, Brook Hart was quick to point out that nothing was final until he received the order and the translation to determine what the Mexican government was actually doing, whether they planned to take any further action, and what the U.S. Attorney’s office might do in response. So I was cautiously optimistic until I knew I was completely out of the woods.
As expected, Mexican prosecutors appealed the ruling. Their reasoning was that all but three cities in Mexico had no statute of limitations on the charges that we’d been facing. Lucky for me, Jalisco, the city where I was arrested, was one of the three cities that did have that law on the books. My lawyers had to go in front of the judge one last time to show that the statute of limitations had run out. The judge agreed and dismissed the case once and for all.
In my heart, I knew that Mexico was not mad at me. I applaud the Mexican justice system even if it did take years for them to come around. Now my next order of business was making sure the American courts followed suit.
When Leland, Tim, and I were arrested in September 2006 by the U.S. Marshals, I was freed after posting $300,000 bail for myself and $100,000 for each of the guys. Judge Barry Kurren agreed to release the three of us on our own recognizance on September 15, while he awaited a written statement confirming that Mexico had dropped the charges so he could make his final decision.
In the meantime, as a way of prodding the United States government, Beth and I asked our fans to write various public officials urging them to drop the pending charges against us. I had the utmost respect for our former administration.
As a citizen of the United States, I feel it is my responsibility to support our commander in chief. Even so, I had some issues with how out of touch that administration seemed to be with the criminal justice world. It shocked and appalled me that Condoleezza Rice was the person who signed my arrest warrant, actually believing that I kidnapped Andrew Luster and took him across the border. In order for her to sign the arrest warrant, she had to believe that this false story was true. I have to believe that she was never given the facts of the case. That’s the only rational explanation I can come up with for her signing such a document, because anyone who knew the facts never would have let me face being sent back there.
There had been some confusion in court when the bondsman who had written our bail bond asked the judge for a written statement saying we would not have to pay another 10 percent or $30,000 to renew the bond. He wanted to be certain we wouldn’t be on the financial hook for more money to keep the bond active. Thankfully, that issue was quickly settled—in great part due to so many caring friends and fans who bombarded Judge Kurren with e-mails and phone calls. Our fans’ actions touched my heart in a way I simply cannot put into words. To be clear, we never asked our fans to write the judge. They did so all on their own.
Judge Kurren, however, didn’t share my warmth and appreciation for all the mail and messages he received. He came down pretty hard on Brook Hart, telling him to relay his message:
“Tell your clients not to contact the court or suggest that their fans contact the court.” He was quite emphatic in his response. Of course, we had no way of controlling our fans’ decision to write in or call.
After that issue was taken care of, the only thing left to resolve was getting America to dismiss the extradition complaints and arrest warrants for me and the boys. There was no reason to pursue those charges any further when there were no longer any outstanding charges against us in Mexico. American law requires Mexico to have a valid pending charge if they want to pursue extradition. No charges, no extradition. It was as simple as that.
Even so, we had to go through the system, and that took some time. It was pure torture waiting out that decision. I called Brook Hart every single day to ask if the government had dropped the charges or if he thought they were still planning to bring me in. His answer was always the same: “I don’t know, we’re not sure.” I was totally freaking out.
Although I was off the hook in Mexico, my own country refused to back down. People often said we did the right thing by capturing Luster, a convicted felon. I knew God had forgiven me for any wrongdoing in the matter because I took one of the bad guys off the street when no one else dared to. If I had grabbed the wrong guy off the streets of Mexico, I’d be speaking Spanish and eating Mexican food from my cell instead of writing this book. But I didn’t. I nabbed someone who had fled America to dodge his sentence for eighty-six counts of rape, drugging his victims and videotaping their encounters. The morality in Mexico supported what I did. They don’t want our rapists fleeing to their country to run free, raping their women and children. They didn’t want to put me in prison any more than I wanted to be there, and they proved it by dropping the case.
Days after Mexico dropped all of the charges against us, I was on the road promoting my first book. So while I wanted to celebrate the good news that came from Mexico, I had embarked on a thirty-day tour that took us across the United States. What a whirlwind experience that was. I toured for four straight weeks, shaking hands with my brothers and sisters—white, Asian, African-American, Latino, young, old, blue and white collar—signing their books, and hearing how my story had somehow inspired them to live better lives. I was absolutely blown away by the cross-section of America that had turned out to receive me with open arms and love. I feel the same way about each and every one of them. Everywhere I went, from Atlanta to Los Angeles, people wanted to meet me, say hello, and thank me for sharing my trut
h. I will never forget the faces of the tens of thousands of you who took the time to read my story and let me know you liked it.
The book tour was the craziest experience I’d had in years. I felt like the world’s biggest rock star as I made my entrance to each and every venue. The fans roared and cheered when they got a glimpse of Beth and me. The feeling I got when I heard the crowd reminded me of my early boxing days. My dad once asked me why I was never really in the fight until I got hurt. At the time, I didn’t care so much about the actual fight as I did the sound of the crowd cheering for me when the announcer called out my name. I told my dad how I felt. He said, “Son, why do you have to be in the ring to do that?” I didn’t know what else I could do where I would receive that type of reaction—until now.
Most book signings are done in an hour or two. When that time runs out, regardless of whether or not people are still standing in line, the signing is over. “Sorry, can’t sign your book, but thanks for buying it anyway” just wasn’t how I moved through the world. I told Alan, my manager, to make sure the store knew that I would stay and sign every last copy. Outside of my family, my fans are the most important people in the world to me. I vowed I would do my best not to disappoint a single one.
The crowds were enormous and bookstores were running out of copies days before our arrival. Alan told me he’d never seen so many people at a book signing. He was as surprised as anyone when a thousand and often two thousand or more people lined up to buy my book. Forty-five hundred people showed up at a signing at a Walmart in St. Louis, and a few spent the night in the parking lot just so they could be at the front of the line. With Beth and my manager by my side, I stayed late into the night to make sure I met every single person who had waited so long to meet me. Then we were escorted to the freeway with three local police cars holding back the traffic so fans wouldn’t chase us while we were driving back to our hotel.
There was another unforgettable appearance at a Walmart, in Arkansas, where people parked their campers in the store lot days in advance so they would be able to meet us and get their books signed. Someone told me those couple of days were the only vacation many of those people would take all year, and they chose to spend it with me. I was flattered and unbelievably appreciative.
It was sometime during my book tour that I realized I had finally fulfilled my lifelong dream of becoming a “celebrity.” I had struggled, worked, and wanted to be famous my whole life. As the old saying goes, “Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.” I love all aspects of my public and private life, but my manager had to explain to me that a lot of responsibility comes with being famous. Alan told me a real celebrity is someone who other people look up to and love. It may seem like it’s all glamorous and fancy—and to be honest, there are lots of perks—but there is also a certain amount of accountability too. Every action, word, or gesture belongs to the world to judge and critique. I listened closely when Alan shared those words and took his advice to heart.
Aside from the long, exhausting days, the book tour was loads of fun. It gave me a unique opportunity to go places in America that I had never been but always wanted to see. And while I didn’t have many days off during the thirty-day tour, I made sure to make the most of that time when I did.
During a stop in Washington, D.C., Beth and I decided to take in the city and see the sights. I had never spent any time in the nation’s capital. When I was growing up, we weren’t the touring type of family. My father would stop along the way to see a landmark here and there, but we didn’t take special trips or family vacations like that. We mostly spent our time away on fishing trips, something I still enjoy.
I’ve been invited to a lot of places since my show hit the air, including plenty of celebrity homes, but I was never more excited than I was to see the home of our country’s first President. I’ve always loved American history, and what would this country have been without our founding fathers, especially my hero, George Washington? I have always loved George Washington and all that he stood for. He was a trailblazer who gave so much of himself to give all of us freedom and undeniable rights.
Mount Vernon is one of the most popular historic estates in America. It was the beloved home of George and Martha Washington from the time of their marriage in 1759 until his death in 1799. He worked tirelessly to expand his plantation from two thousand acres to eight thousand, and the mansion house from six rooms to twenty-one, during his life. Mount Vernon is located just sixteen miles south of Washington, D.C., so it wasn’t far from the hotel where we were staying.
The homestead rests on the banks of the Potomac River. We were invited to tour the mansion as well as a dozen outbuildings, including the slave quarters, kitchen, stables, and greenhouse. George and Martha Washington’s final resting place is also on the grounds. They’re buried in a tomb where memorial ceremonies are held daily. The Slave Memorial and Burial Ground are also close to the tomb.
Seeing Mount Vernon was extremely emotional for me. I didn’t expect to have the type of visceral reaction to it that I did. Washington’s spirit and all that he stood for drew me to Mount Vernon, and being there deeply moved me.
When we got to the home, we were assigned a bright young tour guide to drive us around and show us the site. He pointed at an apple tree and said, “That tree has been here since the house was built.” I asked if I could take an apple off the tree. I wanted to plant the seeds at my home in Hawaii. These were apple seeds from the same tree George Washington ate from. That was huge. I knew that this visit would be significant to me, but I had no way of knowing what a huge impact it would end up having on my life.
The guide began telling us stories about George and his best friend, who happened to be one of his slaves. Even though the man was George’s closest confidant, he had to call him a slave so no one else could own him. I asked the guide how he knew these stories. He explained that George Washington kept meticulous notes on his life and left them behind so that we could all know his history.
That story reminded me of my good friend Whitaker, who was my cellmate back at Huntsville prison, where I had been sentenced to serve five years for first-degree murder, a crime I didn’t commit, though I had some involvement.
I got to Huntsville in 1977, when it was still a segregated prison. The prison population was predominately black. The two-story cell block had white inmates on one side and the blacks on the other. They painted the white section a pale lime green. It was dreary and dull, the kind of color you found inside an old hospital.
It took me a while to get into a groove in prison. I was a cocky twenty-four-year-old biker who thought he had all the answers. Everything I did, I did the hard way. I had no idea what the easy way meant. Six months into my sentence I still hadn’t learned how to pick my battles. What seemed like minor disagreements were of major importance in the joint, because that’s all you have on the inside—right and wrong. A few days after a scuffle I had with the Muslims, they sent a guy named Whitaker after me. I felt confident going up against him because we were about the same size. We stared each other down. I always talked all kinds of bull before my fights to try and psych out my opponents. To my surprise, Whitaker was aware of my game. Before I could throw my first punch, he landed a few on me, but I never went down. I’ve taken a lot of punches, but I’ve never felt anything like Whitaker’s. He was the strongest man to ever hit me. The few punches I landed on him had no effect on the guy. Whitaker kicked my ass that day. Because I never backed down, I earned the respect of the other inmates, and Whitaker and I emerged as friends. I was so impressed with his technique I asked him to teach me how to fight like him so I could become a better fighter.
Not long after Whitaker and I got into our fight, Huntsville was desegregated. It was the last Texas penitentiary to be integrated. Feds surrounded the prison with guns and said, “Integrate them today.” The warden looked over to see the white prisoners standing to one side and the blacks on the other. Nobody was moving. I was the first to proudly w
alk across the yard to stand tall with my black brothers.
A giant and very dark-skinned inmate looked at me and said, “You’re on our side of town now, Doggie.”
“No matter what side of town I’m on, I’m still the Dog,” I barked back.
Just then I noticed a guy I called Cadbury standing right beside me. He had walked across the line too.
“I’m his sidekick,” Cadbury said.
Pretty soon twenty-five white guys had crossed over. The warden looked at one of the feds and said, “We’ll integrate by morning.”
Remember, this was 1970s America. The rest of the country had already pretty much desegregated. As a half-breed, I never wanted anyone to judge me on the color of my skin. I was proud of my heritage and figured the brothers in prison were too. Sure, we used the “N” word in the joint, but it wasn’t a derogatory term, at least not the way I heard it being used. It was just the way the black inmates talked to one another. In a way, from the moment I crossed the segregation line I believed I had become a brother too. The more I hung out with them, the more I started to use the same language they did because I wanted to fit in and be like them. The men I served time with never once told me I was out of line or about to get my ass kicked for using the “N” word or any other slang term I picked up along the way. I didn’t realize the “N” word was bad or insulting. Never. Did that make me ignorant? I suppose it did, yet, in retrospect, perhaps in an innocent way. I just didn’t know any different and no one ever told me otherwise.
On the night the prison integrated, one of the black inmates asked me why I came over to their side. I didn’t know the answer. I just did what I thought was right. I wasn’t raised to see men as black, white, red, or yellow. I didn’t think of any one person as being lower or less important in society than another. To me, we were all the same, especially inside the joint.
Ironically, Whitaker, who had once been my foe, ended up becoming my cellmate and a good friend for the rest of my incarceration, which thankfully lasted only eighteen months of the full five years I was sentenced to serve. Whenever inmates saw Whitaker and me walking together, they’d shout, “There goes Salt and Pepper.” We keep in touch to this day.
Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given (2010) Page 4