“I don’t know the answer, Duane, but you do.” Those were the words Tony spoke when I asked him what he thought I should do. He said I could come to his home in Fiji and hide out for a while if I thought that was the best solution. He told me and Beth to fly on down for a couple of weeks. He was there doing a seminar, but he’d be able to spend some time talking it through if we wanted to. I gave his generous offer a lot of consideration. Two weeks halfway around the world on a private island sounded pretty appealing. I could hide from the world if I wanted to. But in the end, after a lot of deliberation, the answer was still no.
For the same reasons I didn’t choose to go the “rehab” route, I didn’t want anyone to judge me for seeking the advice of a guy so many view as a “guru” rather than as the good friend Tony Robbins has been to me. The more I thought about how Tony had answered, the more I realized that, once again, he was absolutely right. I didn’t need two weeks in isolation to find out that the correct choices lived inside me. All I had to do was find the right words, let them flow from within, and hope I wouldn’t make things worse.
It wasn’t until I reached my fifties that I realized education wins out over stupidity every time. For years my manager warned me that educated men don’t use the “N” word. Alan accompanied me to a speaking engagement in Canada a few months prior to the Enquirer story. We were driving to the event when I referred to a white girl as a “n***er.”
Confused, Alan asked, “Why did you use that term on a white girl?”
“I’ve never used that word to describe the color of someone’s skin. It’s about who they are, how they operate. It doesn’t matter if she’s white, red, yellow, or black. It’s about who she is on the inside.”
Although he understood what I was trying to say, he continued to strongly discourage me from using that word at all. I often tried to defend myself to Alan by rattling off a dozen names of educated Hollywood types who in fact use the word all the time—black and white men alike. Even so, Alan never bought into my rationalizations.
Growing frustrated and worried that my ignorance had now bit me in the butt, Alan said, “Please don’t get mad at me for being the messenger, Duane, but this ridiculous, ignorant, stupid hillbilly dumb-ass act is going to be the end of your career. People will never understand you’re not being prejudiced when you use words like that. You can’t plead innocence and expect the educated person to believe you.” Alan’s words closely echoed the advice I’d heard from Becky, Tony’s wife, years before that had so clearly fallen on deaf ears when she tried to impart her wisdom to me.
Alan Nevins is an elegant man who hangs around sophisticated people a lot more than I do. A guy like that always bets on the winning horse. He never takes a chance on the long shot. Alan was hired on the same day the federal marshals kicked in my door and arrested me for the Luster case. He had his work cut out for him from the very start. When we first met, Alan saw something inside me that made me a winner and someone he wanted to represent. Even with his undying support, I was beginning to wonder if I was too much of a loser to know when I had won. Was I really a dumb convict who just got lucky? Or was I like a moldable piece of clay that could be taught?
When I asked Alan what he thought I should say to Sean Hannity and Larry King, he deadpanned, “Anything but n***er.” We both laughed for a moment and then Alan got serious. He told me that there wasn’t much I could say that would make things worse than they already were, so I should just speak from my heart. He went on to explain that anyone who had met me and knew me already knew what was in my heart, and now the time had come to let the public see my true self and not hear only empty words when I spoke. Only then would they understand that I didn’t say anything out of hatred for black people—it was just my naïveté. He gave me three or four pointers, reminded me that I am the Dog and that, for many people, that stood for something good. Other than those pearls of wisdom, though, for the most part, he left it to my own volition.
Within days after the incident, e-mails and letters of support began pouring in from fans. The officer who had encountered Monique and Tucker outside Lulu’s earlier in the summer even publicly came out to share his experience with them that night to try and shed some light on what type of person Monique was. All of the support I received meant the world to me, but there was one letter in particular I received via e-mail that deeply touched my heart, so much so that I will never forget it. The e-mail was titled, “My Grandmother Is Crying….”
It was written by a woman whose eighty-six-year-old grandmother religiously watched the show despite the fact that she didn’t watch a lot of television. She said her grandmother disliked motorcycles, tattoos, long hair on men, bleach blondes, high heels, shorts, and overbearing men, but loved the Dog and never missed an episode of Dog the Bounty Hunter. Her grandmother said she admired me because I was not afraid to show the world I was human, believed in love and forgiveness, and would cry when my heart hurt. I had to stop reading the letter when I saw those words because I was overcome with emotion from the woman’s kind words.
When her granddaughter told her about my show being pulled from A&E because of my remarks, she wouldn’t stop crying because the one thing she looked forward to every week more than tending to her garden and cooking for her family was watching my show, and now it had been taken away from her. When the granddaughter discussed my situation with her, her grandmother imparted the following wisdom: “Christians come in all sizes, shapes, and from every walk of life. We don’t all have to fit into one mold.” She asked her granddaughter to write the letter to Beth and me to let us know she supported us no matter the outcome and to let A&E know she won’t be watching their network again until they put me back on the air. She encouraged the network to give our advertisers the thousands of letters they had received like hers so they would be seen as heroes to stand by me instead of abandoning me.
What Tucker had done was tragic. He didn’t understand that the hopes and dreams of so many, from little children to grandmothers, all over the country had been shattered. He had taken Dog off the air. But I was the one who had uttered the very words that brought me down. No one held a gun to my head. I said what I said without any thought it would hurt so many people.
I’ve read that e-mail several times since receiving it that day. I was hopeful the woman’s words and sentiment would be representative of how most people felt, but I didn’t count on it. Her understanding of my situation reminded me that there are lots of people in the world who get the meaning of compassion. Although I never met this woman or her grandmother, I feel like I will always be connected to them in spirit for the strength, kindness, and mercy they showed me in one of my darkest moments.
One of the most meaningful letters I received during this time came from my son Wesley, whom I hadn’t spoken to in some time. I’d tried to reconnect with him over the years, but he always kept me at arm’s length. I was surprised when Beth told me about the e-mail that came in shortly after the news of the “N” word incident. After years of limited correspondence, Wesley wrote to say he thought I could use a friend at my lowest moment. And boy, was he right. When I later asked why he chose to reach out to me at that time, he said, “So you could be absolutely certain I don’t want anything from you.” I was deeply moved by his love and support. His fortuitous e-mail opened the lines of communication between us in a way they had never been before. I would never have guessed it would take something like my public lambasting to bring my son back to me. I suppose the sad irony is I temporarily lost one son but permanently gained another from that experience.
For the most part, the letters I received were very kind. They assured me that I hadn’t lost my fans so much as I had disappointed them. There was lots of love and support in the countless pages I read those first few days. Their kindness overwhelmed me, especially in the midst of the unbelievably untrue things that were being said about me by people who clearly didn’t know me. However, I also received many letters that were angry that I was ca
pable of saying something so cruel. Judgment calls were being made based on assumptions in the press and short clips from a twenty-five-minute conversation that were being used out of context. That was a tough pill to swallow, but I managed to let it go until my upcoming interviews with Sean and Larry, where I planned to explain everything the best I could.
The day before my scheduled appearance on Hannity and Colmes, I was finally given the good news that I no longer faced extradition to Mexico. Judge Barry Kurren had finally dismissed the extradition complaints and canceled the arrest warrants against Leland, Tim, and me, essentially making us free men. While the news was gratifying, I was very much focused on the events of the past week and my upcoming interviews. My troubles with Mexico seemed distant compared to the difficult and daunting task that was ahead of me.
Beth and I flew to Los Angeles to do the scheduled interviews with Sean and Larry. We had no idea what awaited us as we touched down on the mainland. I had been secluded and protected in my island sanctuary, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. Our anxiety grew as we crossed the Pacific. We knew the press would be there, but we had no idea how many or how bad it would be. When we deplaned, Beth and I made the long walk down the corridor through the terminal at LAX. When we emerged from the long escalator leading down to baggage claim, I was relieved to see William, my longtime driver and friend, waiting for us. I was worried I had hurt William with my careless words, because he was a proud black man. I also knew he and I had a long history together and I considered him my brother in every way. We used to call each other the “N” word all the time. I can only recall one occasion where he whispered that word into my ear instead of saying it aloud. When I asked him why he’d whispered it that particular day, he said it was because he was worried there were a couple of people around us who would be offended by our banter. We looked at each other, with a knowing glance that he was probably right. Even so, it never stopped us from affectionately using that word—that is until that day he met me at the airport in Los Angeles.
William showed up with three of his coworkers, all black men, to protect us from the throngs of paparazzi that were there to greet us as well. William, Les, Isaiah, and Ronnie looked like the front line of the Denver Broncos waiting to block anyone from our path. I was instantly relieved because I knew William’s love for me transcended the story of what had happened. The guys quickly ushered us to a waiting bus while sending the paparazzi after two decoy SUVs they had brought to throw them off. We were so touched by their caring and warm welcome. It was ironic that the very people the media had said I despised and hated were the guys who met me, comforted me, and kept me safe throughout my time in Los Angeles. These guys had worked for me for years. They knew who I was inside my heart. They never once felt betrayed or dishonored by my use of the “N” word.
Not long after my appearances in Los Angeles, I was devastated by the news that William had been diagnosed with stage four cancer. He began chemotherapy treatments, but couldn’t take what it was doing to his body. He called me from time to time to let me know how he was doing. I pleaded with William to continue with his treatments, but he couldn’t do it. Every time we came to town, William did his best to see us until he got too sick and was no longer able to. I was so grateful for his friendship and loyalty over the years, I wanted to do whatever I could to make sure his last days on this earth were as comfortable as possible. I sent money to make sure he had groceries, could pay his rent, and was able to get whatever prescriptions he needed until he passed away. My friendship with William was as significant as my relationship with my old cellmate Whitaker. And, in a way, more so because he understood the ups and downs of living a fast-paced Hollywood life. He never gave up on me, nor I on him.
The interview with Sean Hannity was hard for two reasons. First, although I went in with a good idea of what he would be asking me about, I still didn’t know what I planned to say. Second, I was incredibly emotional. I cry at the drop of a hat, and I knew this interview would rattle my cage a bit. Thankfully, whenever I broke down or started to sway into a bad place, Sean would stop me, rephrase the question, and essentially let me start over.
When I tried to tell Sean about my experience at Mount Vernon, it came out all wrong. Beth was off camera practically stomping her feet, begging me to just stop talking. I was so emotionally upset that I messed it up badly. Beth and Alan were in the back watching, and at the break they came rushing onto the stage. I thought they both were going to kill me. “You just told America you were going to be buried at Mount Vernon,” Beth said.
“No, I didn’t.”
They both yelled at me, “Yes, you did!”
In my emotional state, I had told the world I had started the process to allow me to be buried with the slaves. What I’d meant to say was that I had contacted the foundation at Mount Vernon and hopefully started the process of buying them a marker for the slaves if they wanted to use such a marker. I also had wanted to tell Sean Hannity that I was so proud of my black brothers and sisters that I would be honored to be buried with slaves with no headstone. But, of course, what was in my mind and what came out of my mouth were not the same thing, causing a mini-scandal to erupt because I said I wanted to be buried at Mount Vernon. When we later called the foundation to offer money for a marker, they had been so bombarded with phone calls about what I said that they didn’t even want to talk to us. I apologized to them for the misunderstanding. I felt so bad as they have preserved Washington’s home with such impeccable detail so that we can learn and understand about the history of our country, slavery, and the man who gave so much for us. Even so, they still refuse to have anything to do with me—for now.
Unbeknownst to me, while Beth was freaking out, two African-American men approached her backstage. She didn’t know who they were. For a moment she actually believed Sean Hannity had double-crossed us by bringing two black guests on to comment after my interview. That’s when someone told Beth the man who was merely saying hello to her was the Reverend Jesse Peterson, who was there with his group BOND, which stands for Brotherhood Organization of a New Destiny. Beth was relieved when she met him, realizing he and his coworker were there to support me and not destroy me.
Reverend Peterson approached us after the taping was done. He looked a little like a gangster to me at first. I thought, Here we go. My first public fight. I couldn’t have been more wrong about the guy. We began talking and sharing our thoughts on racism in America.
“There’s no ‘white bands, white TV networks.’” He was telling me that because of these types of stereotypes, he believes the black man is just as prejudiced as the white man. “I grew up on a plantation in the South. I’ve heard the ‘N’ word more times than you’ve taken a breath.”
“Jesus, man. Shut up! I don’t want to hear you talking like this!” I was stunned by his straight-to-the-heart style and manner, and nervous to be a part of any racially fired-up conversation. Peterson told me he knew a racist when he met one and he didn’t believe that I was a racist. From that day on, he and I forged a friendship that began with what I thought was going to be a very sticky situation. Peterson and I don’t necessarily see eye to eye when it comes to politics. In fact, I’ve never disagreed with a man more in my life than I do with Reverend Peterson, but I respect him and all he stands for. He’s a radical nut and just the type of man I needed in my corner to help guide and counsel me through these times. We agreed to talk again over the next few weeks to see how we could work together.
I appeared on Larry King Live the next night. The interview was equally emotional. Tim Storey appeared with me for a segment, as did my oldest son, Christopher. Tim caught a lot of grief from other preachers in the community for standing by my side, but that didn’t deter him from referring to me as his brother and supporting me through this situation. Even when others insisted I was a racist, Tim Storey refused to let them have their way, going so far as to make it evidently clear that he did not believe that to be true.
During the
interview, my son Christopher told Larry King how the National Enquirer had approached him to talk about his dad, offering him quick cash for his story. They asked him a series of questions, which Christopher lied about in his answers so he could get the money. The Enquirer asked him questions about my alleged drug use over the years and about me being a racist. They encouraged him to say whatever he wanted by telling him “the more dirt, the better.” When the paper gave Christopher a lie detector test, which they sometimes do as a precaution, the results were inconclusive. Even so, they went ahead and printed the story.
Since that incident, it appeared the National Enquirer had had an ongoing interest in stories about me. Christopher’s interview was done months before Tucker sold the tapes. Christopher drove himself into the ground with guilt for what he had done. He went out of his way to reach me after the story broke, to apologize. He said he was after some fast money, which the paper made easily available for a few hours of the boy’s time. Christopher, like Tucker, was vulnerable to their offer without realizing the consequences of his actions. I am a man who stands for second chances, and I was willing to forgive Christopher for his lack of judgment. Having a relationship with my son was more important to me than holding a grudge. That is why I asked him to be on the show with me that night.
After the Larry King interview, a poll revealed that 82 percent of Larry King’s viewers said they didn’t think my show should be taken off the air. That was a pretty big number of supporters, and it should have made me feel better about things, but it didn’t. Even though it was a tremendous display of mercy, there were still 18 percent of his viewers who thought what I did made me a racist and I deserved to pay for it. I figured there was a small percentage of those people who had hated me to begin with. Yet for the 1, 2, or 3 percent of people who thought what I did was reprehensible, but whose minds I could still change, I needed to find a way to spread the word that Dog is a good man, a righteous man of principle, and someone who chooses to lead his life by example and not just words.
Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given (2010) Page 11