The only time Beth wakes me in the middle of the night is when I am having a bad dream or when there’s some awful news. In the past couple of years she has woken me to tell me my daughter Barbara Katie died in a fatal car accident and then when federal marshals were outside our door to take me away. If Beth wakes me up, it’s never good. She’s never once woke me to say, “We just won a million dollars!”
“The National Enquirer has you saying the ‘N’ word on tape. This is bad, Duane. Really bad.”
I thought, What’s so bad about that? “Bad” is one of the children is hurt. “Bad” is you’re going back to jail. “Bad” is someone we love just died. The National Enquirer story didn’t fit into any of those categories, at least not for me.
“Where are all the kids? Are they all right?” I asked.
Beth said they were fine. The only one I worried about these days was my son Tucker. Tucker went to prison in 2002 for robbing a Japanese tourist with a BB gun. He received a twenty-year sentence for armed robbery and was later paroled after serving four years. When he got out, Tucker came to live and work for me in Hawaii.
It wasn’t long before he was hanging with a bad crowd. Within weeks of his release, Tucker had a girlfriend who Beth and I thought was a terrible influence on him. I suspected Tucker was getting high again and it broke my heart. He was making one bad decision after another, but there wasn’t a lot I could do except tell him how I felt.
So when Beth woke me up that night, I figured it had to be about Tucker, though I had no idea what he’d done. When she told me it was a tabloid news story, I said I was going back to sleep.
“Duane, I don’t think you get it. You’re in deep trouble.”
“Beth, it’s me. Nobody’s going to be angry with the Dog for using the ‘N’ word. I use it all the time.” And I did.
I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. I kept thinking this wasn’t bad. I know bad. I thought this would pass. I had no idea my dream was about to become my worst nightmare. Beth knew she had to rally the family, so she immediately called our daughter Baby Lyssa to the house to help soften the eventual blow that before the end of the day would unravel everything I held dear.
Beth told me that my son Tucker had recorded a phone conversation that he and I had had several months earlier. I had to think back to exactly when that call took place. And then it occurred to me, it must have been back in March 2007.
Beth had been suspicious that there was something going on with Tucker for some time. None of us liked his girlfriend, Monique, from the very start. She and her friends had been hanging around the back door of our office in Honolulu trying to hit on Leland and Duane Lee. Ironically, the girls were working at the Kirby vacuum store, the same vacuums I used to sell when I first got out of prison. Whenever the boys were out back on a break, these girls would hover around them. We called them “Lot Lizards” because they were like the lizards that crawl all over our back parking lot.
Beth kept telling everyone to stay away from those girls. She worried about them right from the start. Whenever one of the boys would make a comment like “They’re really nice,” Beth would quickly say, “Stop it! You’re not going to start socializing with people you met in a parking lot. You don’t know who they are or what they’re capable of.”
While everyone thought Beth was being a little paranoid, the bottom line is that she is usually right. One day Beth hit her threshold of tolerance and finally told one of the girls to get lost.
“You’re not a client and you’re not a tenant. I don’t want you hanging around here anymore, got it? Now, go!” She literally shooed her off the property. The girl was pissed and ran as fast as she could to tell her friends, including Tucker’s girlfriend, Monique, that Beth had been mean to her. That’s when we believe they hatched their plan to catch us doing something really bad on tape.
Monique is an African-American woman. I am sure she heard from Tucker that from time to time I used the “N” word. After the Michael Richards and Don Imus catastrophes, that would have been a perfect way to set me up or, worse, bust me in the press. Tucker must have said it upset him whenever he heard me use that word so he could seem sensitive and heroic for defending his girlfriend’s honor. Shortly after Beth chased off the girl in the parking lot, an anonymous note was left under my office door that had the word “N***er” written on it over and over again. Who would send me such a note? It was a message, but I had no idea what it meant. I gave it to Baby Lyssa, who handed it off to Beth.
“This goes into the shredder.” Beth was certain she knew who was responsible for such a reprehensible thing.
Beth warned me. She said, “Duane, these girls are nothing but trouble. In fact, they’re outside our door again. I’m sure they’re up to something no good. Don’t fall for any of their tricks.”
Beth was right, but she didn’t realize one other important thing: These girls were out to get her every bit as much as they were me. Tim “Youngblood” Chapman came to us to say he’d overheard the girls scheming, and their alleged plan was to call Beth a “f*cking wop,” which they were certain would start an argument or some type of altercation. They would tape-record Beth’s reaction, hoping that she’d say something damaging and trying to get her to throw the first punch. It was a good plan, because everyone knows if you start calling Beth names, you’ve grabbed the bitch by the horns and it’s on like Donkey Kong. Beth fights back, but she generally fights fair. If you call her a name, she’ll come back by calling you a name. If you talk about her family, she’ll go after yours. If you throw down a racial slur, she’ll respond with one about you. There was no doubt she’d let loose, and throwing the first ethnic slur was the trigger they hoped would get Beth to say something racial.
I was furious. I called Tucker to find out what was going on. When I told him Monique was in our parking lot trying to set up Beth, he denied it.
“No she’s not. She would never do a thing like that.” Tucker firmly stood his ground while defending his girlfriend and her actions. Little did I know that he too had a recorder running, waiting to get what he wanted from me on tape.
It had become pretty clear to Beth and me that Monique’s intentions toward our family weren’t sincere. She and her friends talked about taking us down and making some money in the process. We both totally believed that her goal was to sell us out. Beth never wanted her in our home, for fear of something leaking to the press that would surely be taken out of context.
Tucker was always fighting with Beth about her refusal to let Monique come to our home. There was constant bickering between the two of them. And then one day, it all came to a head. Tucker was working for us selling T-shirts at our family-run souvenir shop in downtown Honolulu. He quit for one reason or another almost every other day. He was perpetually angry for reasons no one else could really understand. And then one day he came over with a nasty attitude saying he was done for good. I don’t really know what exactly caused him to quit that day. It could have been anything from a fight with Beth to our shooing away his girlfriend.
Because Tucker was a felon, it was hard for him to find steady work anywhere else. He was on parole, so I felt it was better to keep him close. I have always ridden Tucker hard to keep him in line. When he first came to Hawaii after getting out of the joint, he was actually really well behaved. Everything was “Yes, sir,” “No, sir” and “Yes, ma’am,” “No, ma’am.”
Looking back, I see that Tucker had us convinced that he was a totally changed man when he first got out. And, for a short time, he was really great. That is, until those girls started coming around. Once he began dating Monique, everything started spiraling out of control. We told him from the start that we didn’t like her, that we both believed she was a bad person. I tell all of my children, “You are who you hang out with.” And it’s true. You become who you hang out with. And still, Tucker refused to break up with Monique.
Beth would get frustrated with his half-assed approach to doing things, and that som
etimes caused an argument between the two of them. He’d do whatever we asked without a major fuss, but he’d always only do it halfway. If I asked him to sweep the floor, he’d forget to pick up the piles of dirt. If I asked him to water the plants, he’d leave the hose unraveled and on the ground instead of putting it away when he was finished.
Tucker was a good kid when he was a youngster. Up to the age of eleven or so, he got good grades, never missed a single day of class, and was never in any trouble. It was around this time that he started going back and forth between my place and his mother’s house. He visited her regularly over the course of the next couple of years. He’d go for a week or two and come back a totally different kid than when he left. I was shocked when I saw him for the first time after coming home from an extended visit with his mom. He had left a clean-cut young boy and returned two weeks later a petty thief with his fingernails painted black.
Beth and I began to notice random items showing up around the house that we both knew Tucker could never afford to buy—like a fog machine! The only conclusion we could come to was that he was stealing the stuff. Although I tried to talk to him about his behavior, the more I spoke to him the worse his attitude became.
As they got older, Tucker, Baby Lyssa, and Barbara Katie had each figured out how to play mom against dad. It’s a pretty common trait among children of divorced parents. Add stepparents into the equation, and you’ve got a recipe for constant conflict and drama unless all of the adults find a way to work together and in the children’s best interests—something I should have done with their mother, but didn’t.
The atmosphere at my ex-wife’s house was decidedly different from the one at mine. For one thing, the kids told me there were no rules at her house. They said their mother had become more of a friend than a parent, which made for a pretty inviting environment for three prepubescent teenagers. They could stay out as late as they wanted, didn’t have to go to school on a regular basis, and were exposed to a party lifestyle that impacted all three in unimaginable ways. My children were not only exposed to hard drugs, they were invited to join in on the partying. They were too young and impressionable to understand that what they saw their mother doing was wrong. By the time Tucker was thirteen, he was old enough to understand what was really going on at his mom’s house. He said he didn’t want to visit her anymore because he hated what he saw happening to his mother and sisters. I think it was a constant internal battle for Tucker, who tried but failed to keep his sisters out of trouble. He wanted to be the heroic brother who protected his sisters from harm. Despite his efforts, he couldn’t stop them from acting out in ways that would eventually hurt them both.
Of course, when the kids returned to our house, Beth and I were always the bad guys because we had rules they had to live by. We set pretty tight boundaries and had expectations that had to be met. The kids all had chores and responsibilities, which they didn’t like very much. Whenever Beth and I told them to clean their room or take out the trash, their usual response was “I’m going back to Mom’s!” I felt so bad, I usually caved in and let them have their way when I ought to have practiced some tough love and been stricter and more secure in my parenting.
Over time, I became aware of what was happening at their mother’s house and tried to talk to her about it, but I never stopped any of the kids from seeing her whenever they wanted. Looking back, I realize that I should have forbidden them to be in her presence until she stopped her partying ways. I should have gone to court and demanded sole custody. I should have told my kids that I’d cut them off and that they’d get nothing from me if they didn’t stop using drugs. But I didn’t. I passively allowed things to continue until it got so bad that I had to put a stop to it.
When Baby Lyssa was raped and became pregnant at the age of thirteen by her twenty-seven-year-old boyfriend, I hit my breaking point. It was time to intervene. Tucker was living with me while Barbara Katie and Baby Lyssa were living with their mother. My teenage daughter’s only influence was that of a woman who was partying hard and endlessly dating. She didn’t pay any attention to the kids, often working or staying out until two in the morning and sleeping all day. I needed to get the girls out from under her before one of them ended up dead. Beth and I stepped in and brought Baby Lyssa to live with us in Hawaii so we could get her off drugs and look after her new baby. She hasn’t left since.
In the meantime, Tucker was getting into more and more trouble. His stealing got worse. He was always taking things like money, jewelry, and other valuable stuff he could easily get his hands on. He’d steal from anyone without a care or thought about what he was doing. He showed no conscience. He even stole all of his little brother’s and sisters’ Christmas gifts one year, leaving nothing but the discarded wrapping paper under the tree. He cleaned us out, taking everything, including a laptop Beth had bought, jewelry I’d given to her, and even a precious ring my mother had given to me before she passed away.
It was hard for me, but I told Beth to call the police even though I knew we were reporting my own son. This was the first time I had ever done anything like that against one of my children. It was a painful yet crucial decision because he was out of control and there was nothing I could do to stop him from stealing. I thought the cops might be able to rattle him into straightening out. I was enraged by the situation, but I also understood my son needed help, help that he wouldn’t accept from me. I could hardly bear to listen as Beth made the call. When Tucker was sentenced, the judge told him “there will be a time when your dad cannot and will not be able to help you.” Thankfully, because Tucker was only seventeen and a half, the judge took mercy on him and sentenced him to probation because he was a juvenile.
Even though the judge was easy on him, it wasn’t enough to deter his behavior or keep Tucker out of trouble. By the time he was eighteen years old, his stealing had become even more out of control. One night, Beth and I were watching the evening news when we heard a story about a robbery in a local hotel room. Two men had broken into a hotel and stolen computers and other electronic equipment from a Japanese businessman. They duct taped the man’s hands and feet together so he couldn’t move and covered his mouth so he couldn’t yell for help. Beth looked over at me and said, “That sounds like something Tucker would do.” And she was right, because Tucker always had duct tape around. At first he used it to amuse Bonnie Jo, who was just a baby. She loved touching the sticky part of the tape. And then one day we came home to find Bonnie Jo’s hand taped to the side of her head. Beth warned Tucker not to do that ever again. But that didn’t stop him. Another time, we found the baby’s wrists bound by the tape.
“Someday that tape is going to be the end of you!” Beth warned Tucker.
Although Beth had her suspicions, I never once thought that my son would commit such a serious crime. I have a knack for ignoring the obvious when it comes to my children. When Tucker came by the house the next day, I asked him if he had anything to do with the robbery. He was emphatic in his answer. “No way, Dad. I would never do something like that.” His denial felt sincere and that was all I needed to hear to put my mind at ease.
Somewhere along the way, Barbara Katie, Tucker, and Baby Lyssa made a pact with one another: They would never rat on each other, ever. But I could tell something was going on because Barbara Katie kept telling me she had something to say but never offered up the information. Beth and I sat Tucker down again and reminded him of the time we called the police on him after he stole the Christmas gifts.
Beth said, “Tucker, if you’ve got something to tell us, say it now before it’s too—”
“OK, I did it!” he confessed.
Beth and I looked at each other.
“Did what?” I asked.
“I stole the computers. I robbed the Japanese guy, Dad. I’m sorry!”
His confession put me in the worst position I have ever been in as both dad and bounty hunter.
“Son, you have to leave my house right now,” I said. “If my phone
was to ring and it’s the police asking about you, I’d have to take you in. You need to walk out that door right now. I can’t harbor a known fugitive in my house, Tucker. I could go to jail. You have to go.” This time, there was absolutely nothing I could do to help my son. He was on his own. The anguish and guilt nearly killed me.
Shortly after he fled, I received a call from local authorities who asked me to help them find Tucker. They knew for sure he was one of the guys who pulled off the heist.
“Listen,” I said. “You’re talking about my son. How dare you call and ask me to help you find him. The mayor’s son has been wanted on drug charges four or five times and I am positive you didn’t ask him to find his kid. You wouldn’t call a fellow cop if you were looking for one of his kids. Why would you call me? I won’t do it. I won’t help you arrest my son.” I slammed down the phone.
Tucker was apprehended a couple of weeks later, but not before putting up a good fight. In fact, I heard he was stopped in Honolulu.
“Tucker!” It was a local police officer.
Tucker spun around, got right in the cop’s face, and said, “What did you just say to me? Did you just call me a f**ker? Who the hell are you to call me a ‘f**ker’?”
Apparently a crowd began to gather as Tucker and the cop had this exchange. My son got the police officer so flustered, he let him go. OK, I’ll admit, Tucker should have turned himself in right then and there, but I had to laugh when I heard about this incident because in a strange way, he made me proud with his Chapman charm.
Tucker was sentenced to twenty years in jail, a stiff sentence for the crime he committed. He served four years in an Oklahoma state prison before being paroled. When he was released in 2006, he came to Hawaii to live with Beth and me.
Prison had changed Tucker, but as his dad, I always chose to see my little boy inside the angry young man who stood in front of me. Growing up, I wanted to give him every shot I could at making something of his life. Instead of teaching him how to box like the other boys, I put him in front of a computer. I tried to keep him away from violence because I thought that would deter him from using drugs. It didn’t work out that way. I tried to overcompensate for his circumstances, and much like his mother, I became more of a friend than parent.
Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given (2010) Page 6