I spent most of my eighteen months in Huntsville hanging with the homies. After I crossed the color line, I became a counselor to a lot of those men. The white boys didn’t require counseling—they got whatever they needed through the system. For some reason, I was the guy the black inmates came to with their problems—like when their woman wrote to break up with them or their momma died. I helped these men cope with their loss so they wouldn’t do anything stupid like trying to escape, though some ended up trying to anyway.
My bounty hunting career was unofficially launched at Huntsville when I captured Bigfoot, a prisoner who was trying to make a run for it. Lieutenant Hillegeist, also known as Big Lou, drew his .38 and took aim at Bigfoot as he ran. We all knew Big Lou had the right to shoot the escaping convict.
“Don’t, Big Lou!” I yelled, without considering what I was saying, then took off after Bigfoot. Once I started chasing Bigfoot, I swear that I heard the click of Big Lou’s gun being cocked and felt the bullet pierce my body. But he never pulled the trigger. Fortunately, I was able to catch up to Bigfoot and tackle him to the ground.
“Stay down or you will die,” I said.
Big Lou had made his way over to us by then.
He threw down his handcuffs and said, “Hook him up, Bounty Hunter.”
Bounty Hunter…I liked the way that sounded.
I had to make the other inmates understand that Big Lou had a gun and he was aiming to kill. If I couldn’t convince them, they’d think I was a rat—and rats don’t last very long in prison.
Later that night, I pleaded my case to a group of Muslims who were very powerful and persuasive inside the joint. If I could convince them, I knew I’d be safe from retribution.
“They told Bigfoot that his momma was dead,” I told them. “He went crazy and took off running for the creek. I didn’t want to see Big Lou shoot him because his momma died.”
The Muslims seemed satisfied by the explanation. It was a great relief because I knew they’d spread the word I wasn’t a rat.
I became the great white hope of Huntsville after that. The prison guards often told me they’d never seen anything like how all of the inmates turned to me when they needed a helping hand or shoulder to cry on. I often think back on my days at Huntsville with nostalgia. Even though I was an inmate, I learned a lot of valuable life lessons. One of the most poignant was the friendship I formed with Whitaker and many of the other inmates. The men I met inside those cold stone prison walls were the strongest, most loyal men I have ever come across in my entire life. They were and still are my true brothers.
I got the education of a lifetime in Huntsville. It prepared me to confront any situation without having to go look up some answer in a textbook. It was a time in my life when every choice had a sudden and often horrible end result. Accepting the consequences of my actions taught me the true meaning of responsibility. The Texas Department of Corrections broke me down and built me back up again. They taught me what it truly means to be a man. I guess that’s why I began thinking about Huntsville as Beth and I walked the hallowed grounds of Mount Vernon that day.
The tour guide took me down to see the grave site where George and Martha Washington were laid to rest. He told me about the three hundred slaves that lived on the property over the years. They had run the home, cooked, baked fresh bread, and worked the fields. He pointed to a hilly area of the property where all of the slaves were buried. When I asked why they were laid to rest there, the guide explained it was the resting place where each of the property’s slave owners always buried their slaves. I was surprised to see there were no grave markers. Just a hill.
“You might find it interesting to know they were all buried with their feet pointed toward the Potomac River.”
“Why is that?” I asked
“That’s how they wanted to be buried, so their spirits would head up the Potomac when they left their bodies, which is the opposite direction from where they arrived.”
I was choked up at the thought of all of those people who were buried under the ground that I stood on. While the others headed back to the car, I asked if I could stay a few more minutes. I wanted to pay homage to my brothers and sisters.
As I peered out over the rolling hill and toward the river, my mind wandered, conjuring up images of what this property had looked like in its day. I closed my eyes and could see all the families all together, children dancing around a large bonfire with their parents. I imagined George Washington having fun with his people and what it would have been like if I had lived back in that time.
The guide could see that I was visibly upset.
“Why are there no markers here for the dead?” I asked
He stammered over his words, saying, “We don’t really know who is buried where. We don’t have their names or know the location of each body. They are scattered all over this hill.”
His answer angered me. Did the great civil rights leaders of our time know about this? I wanted to shout over a loudspeaker, “Someone needs to get these graves marked!”
The Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association had purchased Mount Vernon from the Washington family in 1858. They opened the property to the public in 1860. Since that time, nearly 80 million visitors have toured Washington’s home, and no one has thought to mark the graves of the slaves who worked there? I was fuming. The guide explained to me that Mount Vernon runs independent of the government, and no tax dollars are expended to support the five-hundred-acre estate, its educational programs or activities. I offered to pay for a marker myself. I told the guide money was of no concern. He reluctantly said he’d pass my offer along, though I could tell he didn’t hold out much hope.
I’ve fought for many things in my life, but never for anything more worthy than giving these slaves their due. Again, I told the guide that I really wanted to pay for a general grave marker. I needed to get in contact with the right people to make that happen. I felt an inexplicable connection to the hallowed grounds of Mount Vernon that day, so much so that I wish I could be buried right there too. It would be an honor for me to lie beside these unsung heroes of American history with no headstone.
I felt jubilant that day because I thought I’d be able to contribute something of significance to the heritage of our county, and that made me feel really good. I was happier than I had been in years. I can’t really give you an explanation on why, but there’s not a single day that goes by where I don’t think about those graves and how to get them properly marked.
In my life, I’ve always had the drive to help people I’ve met along the way who I believed had potential and were worthy of a second chance. I’ve used that intuition for years as both a bondsman and a bounty hunter. Bail bonds is a user-funded service. My clients have to give me some type of collateral to secure the money I put up for their release, to guarantee that they will appear in court. If they don’t, all of my assets, including my checking account, my income—everything—are on the line and can be subject to garnishment.
A bail bondsman is someone who acts as a surety and pledges money or property as bail for the appearance of a criminal defendant in court. Bond agents have an agreement with the local courts to post an irrevocable bond, which will pay the court if any bonded defendant does not appear. The bondsman usually has an arrangement with an insurance company to draw on such security if the defendant skips.
A bondsman usually charges a fee of 10 percent of the total amount of the bail required to post a bond. It is a nonrefundable fee, and this is how I get paid for my services. So, if a defendant is on a ten-thousand-dollar bond, someone has to come up with one thousand dollars in cash before I will go down to the jail and post the bond to get that person out. For larger bail amounts, I can obtain security for the full value of the bond against assets the defendant or someone who is willing to help the defendant puts up for collateral. For example, I can accept the deed to a mortgage, pink slip to a boat or car or any other large item that will cover the full sum of the bond. As a bounty hunte
r, if the defendant fails to show up for a court date, I am allowed by law to bring that defendant to the court in order to recover the money paid out under the bond.
Since bail bondsmen are financially responsible for these fugitives, we’re the ones who go out to find the defendants so we can bring them back to court to face their charges—all of this at no cost to you, the taxpayer.
Bondsmen have traditionally been given a bad rap because of their image as rough-and-tumble characters, perceived to be almost as crooked as the guys they’re bailing out of jail. But as the profession grew, it became more regulated, which made bondsmen more respected and reputable.
Several years ago, when I was writing bonds in Denver, I wrote one for Calvin Pope, the president of the Rollin’ 30 Crips. The Crips are one of the largest and most violent associations of street gangs in the United States, with an estimated 30,000 to 35,000 members. They are known to be involved in murders, robberies, and drug dealing, among many other criminal pursuits.
I had caught Calvin’s daddy and another one of his relatives, so I knew his family pretty well. Calvin had sixteen warrants and needed sixteen separate bonds. His sister, Lil, had originally contacted Beth to put up the bonds for him, but she was too afraid to write that many. So we ended up splitting them between the two of us. Calvin was often called the “king of the road” because he didn’t give a damn about the law. The first time I went down to the station to write a bond for Calvin, he said to me, “I thought you were black on the phone.”
“I ain’t black, but I am the Dog.” Somehow I thought that would matter to him more than the color of my skin.
Calvin was worried that the judge was going to sock it to him. I told him he had nothing to be concerned about.
“You’re young, Calvin. As long as you get a reputable job, I think you’ll be all right.”
The case was going in front of Judge Marcucci, who hated every bondsman in the business, except, perhaps Beth. I think he liked her low-cut blouses and Italian moxie. They used to run into each other at volleyball games where his daughter and Beth’s niece, Jacqueline, played against each other for their respective teams. None of the other bondsmen in Denver had that kind of social connection with the judge. For the most part though, other than Beth, he never gave any of us enough time to properly plead a case for our clients.
“Why are you here today, Chapman?” Judge Marcucci asked.
“I’m here to support my client, Judge.”
“You know he’s got to show up fifteen more times this month, right?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I’m aware of that. Do you think you could put all of those warrants into one bond?”
“No.” He didn’t even have to think about his answer.
The judge knew it wouldn’t be easy getting a guy like Calvin Pope into court fifteen more times, so it was a setup for disaster.
“Mr. Chapman, how do you propose you’re going to get Mr. Pope here for his next appearances?”
“I’m going to call him, Your Honor.”
“Oh, is that right?” he said with more than a touch of sarcasm.
“Your Honor, I am going to call him on his pager. Would you like the number?”
“Yes, I would. For the court, we most certainly would!” Remember, I was promising the judge the phone number for the president of the Crips.
Our little cat-and-mouse game went on for several minutes—longer than any other exchange I can ever remember having with Judge Marcucci.
When we got into the hallway after the hearing, Calvin let me have it.
“What the hell, Dog?”
“I had to, Calvin.” I knew the judge would probably be giving him time. Calvin backed down because he realized that I’d done what I had to do.
A few weeks later, Calvin called me up at home to tell me to look outside my window. For a moment I worried that he was setting me up for a drive-by shooting. To my shock and surprise, out there was a royal blue 1986 Buick Regal that had been lowered to the ground, had a landau top, custom rims, fur seat covers, and a special paint job. It was a major pimped out ride.
“That’s your car, Dog.”
I loved it. I drove that ride all over Denver. My license plates said, “DOG LEE,” so everybody in town understood that car belonged to me. The Crips and other gangbangers knew the Dog was coming to get them when they saw that car in their neighborhood. And I purposely used it to hunt down those brothers too. When Calvin gave me that ride, all of the other bondsmen in Denver knew the black bail was mine and off-limits to them.
If I hadn’t been standing beside Calvin that day in court, the judge would have hammered him. I had grown frustrated with the justice system’s apparent double standard. If a white kid gets busted with less than an ounce of marijuana, he gets a slap on the wrist. But if a black kid gets caught with the same amount of weed, he goes to jail. I had watched this happen too many times over the years. That’s why I always went to court with my black clients. I didn’t want them to get jacked around.
I once got really upset after another judge sentenced a young black kid to thirty days for a minor charge—one for which she could have easily let him off with a warning, probation, and a small fine. This kid’s momma was in the courtroom and had to witness her son being taken away in handcuffs for something a white kid would have surely been let off the hook for.
I was enraged with the judge’s sentence. “Your Honor, I thought the scales of justice were supposed to be color-blind!”
The judge freaked out, pointed her finger at me, and screamed, “Get out of my courtroom!”
I suppose I was lucky she didn’t find me in contempt and sentence me to a night in the clink too. Even so, I thought her decision was totally unfair, and yet that type of thing still goes on every day.
Calvin’s first court date was fast approaching. I was stunned when he told me that Judge Marcucci actually paged him on the day he was set to appear in court.
When we showed up, Judge Marcucci said, “I noticed you answered my page by being here, Mr. Pope.”
I think the judge respected Calvin’s willingness to face the music for the crimes he had committed and take responsibility for his actions.
Unfortunately, Calvin had too many felonies, so the judge had no choice but to convict him and send him to prison. Even if a judge likes you, he still has a responsibility to uphold the law. While serving his time, Calvin was diagnosed with leukemia. While he was in the hospital, Judge Marcucci showed up for an unexpected visit.
Calvin was so inspired by the judge that he decided right there and then to fight for his health and not give up on life. I knew he’d beat his disease for sure.
I stayed friends with Calvin over the years. He eventually gave up the gang life, got married, and had a few kids. The last time I spoke with him was in October 2007. He told me he was applying to be a security guard at the Cherry Creek Mall outside of Denver. He called to ask me how he should answer the question on his application about being a convicted felon. He was nervous to lie but didn’t think he’d get the job if he confessed to all of his various convictions.
I told him to write “will discuss” on the line and then explain the circumstances during his interview. Calvin hesitated to take my advice, fearing that they’d discard his application with that type of vague response.
“Dog, I’m going to get in trouble if I lie.”
“With who?” I asked. “The paper cops? By the time they run your record and come back to you, you’ll have been on the job for at least six months.”
“Six months! Hell, I only need the job for two weeks! I’m just looking to make a few extra dollars.”
I had to laugh because Calvin was sweating bullets and agonizing over his answer. I offered to call over to the person in charge of hiring and give them my personal recommendation if he thought that might help.
“You’d do that for me, Dog?”
“Of course,” I said. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll give it a shot.” When we hu
ng up, I called the woman in human resources and told her who I was.
“Hi. This is Dog the Bounty Hunter. I am calling on behalf of one of my good friends, Calvin Pope.” I hoped she knew it was really me and not a prank call.
“Oh, sure. I remember him. He really impressed me.” I wasn’t positive if she was being sincere or not, but I decided to play along anyway.
“I’ve known Calvin for many years. He is a great find for you and will definitely be an asset to your security team. He’ll be terrific in catching shoplifters and keeping an eye on things. He’s really good—you should definitely hire him.” I hung up feeling hopeful my call would seal the deal.
A few days later, Calvin called to say he’d gotten the job.
“Dog, they gave me a uniform and a badge, man.” I could tell he was proud of his new career. When I asked Calvin how he answered the felony question, he confessed that he had left it blank. In my heart, I was proud of him for not lying. He was a changed man who was being given a second chance in life. It felt good knowing that despite his past, he too had eventually ended up on the “right” side of the law.
CHAPTER 6
Lucy Pemoni
October 31, 2007
“Duane,” Beth whispered.
“What time is it?” I asked her.
“It’s four A.M.”
We’d been out celebrating Beth’s fortieth birthday the night before. I never gave her a surprise party because Beth is hard to pull one over on, but I’d wanted to do something special for her for her big four-o. We met several of our friends at Duc’s Bistro, a well-known restaurant in Honolulu. I was in bed at our home just outside of Honolulu and still pretty out of it when I heard Beth say, “We’ve got trouble.”
Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given (2010) Page 5