Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given (2010) (15 page)

Fred was panicked by this exchange. He wouldn’t even sit down in the DA’s office. Throughout the entire discussion, he kept pulling me aside and saying, “We’re going to jail, I told you, Duane. We’re definitely going to jail.” He sounded like Rain Man, repeating himself as he paced and said, “Oh my God” over and over. I kept telling Fred we weren’t going anywhere but the airport. Jail wasn’t in the cards.

I began laying into the DA for his dumb-ass sheriff not knowing about the dope he had in custody or that he had an inmate incarcerated under a
false identity who was wanted on a $250,000 federal warrant or inmates who were hoarding all sorts of contraband.

“Listen, Mr. Smart Ass DA! I want my man,” I insisted.

“The only thing I’m going to give you is a one-way ticket to jail unless you get your ass out of my town, and I mean right now!”

“I ain’t leaving without my man,” I repeated. Fred and I had come too far to go home empty-handed. Perhaps the sheriff knew I wasn’t going to budge until I got what I wanted. He finally caved in, if for no other reason than to get rid of me, and said, “I’ll give you a body receipt, but that’s it. He’s not going anywhere. He’s our man now.”

I was fine with that because a body receipt was enough to get Mary Ellen off the bond. I didn’t care about Halligan or where he ended up as long as Mary Ellen and Fred were released of their obligations. The judge took them off the bond right away. This Dog always gets his man.

END OF INTERMISSION ONE

Lucy Pemoni

W
hen I was a young boy, my grandpa used to tell me the story of Humpty Dumpty. Over the years, I adapted that famous children’s rhyme to fit my personality a little better.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men

Got together and put him back together again

Whenever I’d repeat my version of the nursery rhyme, Grandpa was quick to point out I wasn’t repeating it right. But I knew exactly what I was saying. I liked my version better because I’ve always been a fixer of men, not a destroyer. I never liked the thought of a man being so fragile that he breaks. I visualized the king’s men busting out a giant tube of Elmer’s glue and piecing Humpty Dumpty back together until he was as good as new.

In a way, that’s how I see myself when I capture fugitives today. I am not out to destroy these people. My intent is to help them put their lives back together. I believe everyone deserves a second chance and an opportunity to right the wrongs they have done.

There’s a human limit to how much pain someone can take before
they break. When I was in prison, I watched plenty of guys pay an inmate named Skinner to take his toilet brush and break their arms so they wouldn’t have to work in the fields. When he hit their bare skin, their arm would break. You could actually hear the bone crack. The guys screamed in horrible agony for a few minutes and then, as quickly as the pain hit, it was gone. The mind takes over and protects the body by putting it into a state of shock so you stop feeling anything. I thought these guys were all nuts. There was nothing that would ever convince me to harm myself like that just to avoid hard labor.

Murder one didn’t break me. Mexico didn’t break me. Losing my daughter didn’t break me. But there were times when I thought I just might shatter from the fallout of the “N” word debacle. I told Beth on several occasions I wasn’t sure I would make it through. But she didn’t buy into my self-pity. Beth has always been tough on me, but she is also my greatest supporter. When we took our vows to stand by each other through thick and thin, we both knew we’d be in for a heck of a ride. There’s no one I’d rather have in my corner when the chips are down than my Beth.

After the
Enquirer
story broke, I met an eighty-five-year-old black man who put his arm around me and said, “Where I come from, Dog, that word means ‘slave.’” He began to cry as he continued. “Growing up, all I heard from people was ‘N***er, go get this and go get that.’ It was not considered a bad word—it was just the way things were back then. I can promise you though, this will pass.”

All I could manage to say to this man was “I’m sorry.”

“Dog, I promise you, this is going to pass. You will be forgiven.”

I didn’t understand what he meant by “pass,” because I’d spent the thirty years since I left prison paying for my felony. I didn’t want to spend the next thirty paying for my ignorance.

The old man began to tell me a story about a guy who drove his car off a bridge with a woman other than his wife in the passenger seat. He got his seat belt off and was able to swim to safety, but he left the woman in the car. He fled the scene but didn’t call the authorities until after her dead body was found the following morning. The next day he
called the police to tell them his car was in the river and so was the woman. That’s when he told me he was talking about Ted Kennedy.

“If America can forgive Kennedy for something like that, surely they will find mercy in their heart for you,” the old man said. “What you uttered is nothing compared to that incident. You will be forgiven and yes, this will pass.”

I have always been a huge fan of the Kennedy family and all they have done for our country. I think about the late Senator Ted Kennedy today and how the world loved him. His legacy will live on forever.

I understood the message the old man was trying to convey, and yet the words of the Old Testament kept coming back to me, “lest ye forget.” I hoped and prayed the old man was right, but I feared he was just being kind and consoling. I had a long road ahead of me to turn around the thoughts of all the people I had hurt, but I believed it could be done, because I know most people have mercy and forgiveness in their hearts.

After my appearances on
Hannity and Colmes
and
Larry King Live,
the phones didn’t stop ringing with requests to be on numerous other talk shows. Producers from
Dr. Phil
repeatedly called to see if I’d be willing to appear with two leaders in the African-American community, T. D. Jakes and Al Sharpton. I refused the invitation several times before they stopped calling. In my absence, Dr. Phil went on the air and called me a coward. No one does that to me without some type of fight, so I started referring to Dr. Phil as the “Great White Dope” in all of my interviews. Dr. Phil kept pushing my buttons by challenging me every chance he got, but I wasn’t falling into his trap. He tried as hard as he could to get me to my breaking point, but he never put me over the edge.

Dr. Phil wanted the drama of a confrontation between honorable men and a supposed racist, all in the name of television ratings. I wasn’t going to serve as his puppet. If I was going to be confronted by someone like Al Sharpton, I thought it would be much better and more effective to meet him head-on, so I called 411 and asked for his number. I hunt people who don’t want to be found for a living. Finding someone who doesn’t even know I’m looking for him is a cakewalk.

When the young woman operator gave me the number for Sharpton’s organization, the National Action Network, I dialed it right away.

“Hello, is this Al Sharpton’s place?” I asked.

“Yes it is. How can I help you?” The woman’s voice on the other end of the phone sounded like she got a thousand phone calls like mine every single day.

“I need to speak to Reverend Sharpton. My name is Duane Chapman. I’m Dog the Bounty Hunter and I am in a heap of trouble.”

There was a short pause and then I heard, “Yes, I believe you are, sir.”

I was relieved the young woman on the other end of the line was so gracious when she heard it was me. I half expected her to slam down the receiver without another word, but she didn’t. I explained I needed to get in touch with the reverend’s secretary or assistant. I knew that would be my best shot to get my message directly through to him. I’ve learned over the years that assistants and secretaries hold the keys to the kingdom. That’s pretty universal in the world of business. If I could make a connection with one of Sharpton’s main people, I’d have a shot with him too. Time was of the essence because Reverend Sharpton is notorious for setting up highly public displays when he is boycotting something. I was worried he was going to organize a march in front of the A&E headquarters to pressure them into firing me for being a racist. It was important to convince someone at his organization that I was a good man who’d made a terrible mistake. I was willing to beg for mercy if I had to.

“Look,” I continued, “I know you’ve probably read the stories and heard the recording of the conversation I had with my son. I am so sorry about what I said, but I need Reverend Sharpton to know that I am not a racist.” I was pleading with the receptionist to put me in touch with the right person.

“I think you’ve got an uphill climb, sir,” she told me.

I swallowed hard. It was the end of the road. And then I heard something I’ll never forget.

“I am Al Sharpton’s daughter, Dog, and I haven’t answered this phone in years,” she said.

“Thank you, Lord!” I screamed.

“I heard the tape and I think it’s all been taken out of context.”

To hear Al Sharpton’s daughter say she understood my situation meant so much to me. Now all I had to do was convince her to relay my message to her dad. Relief washed over me when she gave me a private number to call her back on the next day.

I phoned her as planned, but there was no answer. I called again. Still no answer. The third time I called she picked up.

“Hi, this is Dog.”

“Hi.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“About what?” My heart was in my throat. I had hoped she was going to give me good news. On the contrary she started to explain that her father had decided to stay out of my situation.

I had no plan B. Everyone had told me how stupid it was to think I could pick up the phone and get Al Sharpton to back me. They said he’d hang me from the highest tree before joining forces. But I didn’t see it that way. If I could somehow get his support, I believed everyone else would have to follow. I hesitated before I opened my mouth, but I thought this was my last shot at finding a way to her dad.

“I’ve got to resolve this,” I told her. “Your father is one of the most courageous and fearless leaders in the black community. He’s never backed down from controversy.” I began rambling as fast as I could. She had me so nervous I was fumbling over my words and thinking I ought to go hang
myself
since that was what her father was about to do to me anyway. But then she interrupted me.

“I’m just teasing you, Dog. Dad said he is not going to say anything about the incident if you take care of a couple of things for him.”

She said Reverend Sharpton wanted me to attend a rally against guns, which I was all too happy to be a part of. She also mentioned Dr. Phil was going to be there too.

“That Great White Dope? What a peckerwood!” I said. She started laughing on the other end of the line. “I’ll go to the rally, but I’m not getting anywhere near that arrogant jerk.”

To this day, Reverend Sharpton has kept his word. He never said a negative thing about me. And though there were several people I met along the way who offered me their support, it wasn’t until a chance meeting in January 2008 that I thought I might actually be welcomed back into the African-American community.

Despite his efforts to get A&E to pull my show, I also reached out to Roy Innis and CORE to see if there was some way to make amends. Mr. Innis was resistant at first, but we were eventually able to set up a meeting to get to know each other. I knew I could turn him around if I spent some face time with him. His son also attended the meeting, and for whatever reason, he was wearing a name tag that read, “Niger Innis.” After spotting it, I looked at Roy in total disbelief.

“Now, listen,” I told him. “This is my life I’m trying to defend. You mean to tell me you named your son the ‘N’ word?”

They both broke out in uproarious laughter. “Duane, his name is Niger, as in the river,” Roy said.

I was a little embarrassed to admit I didn’t even know how to spell the word I’d uttered that brought us together that day. Roy was stunned by my innocence. He looked at his son and said, “He doesn’t even know how to spell it, how could he be a racist?” Perhaps that moment helped him to understand how naïve I really was. Whatever the reasons, Roy got to know me that day.

“You don’t fit any criteria for a racist, Dog,” he told me.

Thank God I found an ally. I was looking for a leader to help me and found a friend. I began crying tears of joy and screaming “Hallelujah” at the top of my lungs. I wanted to shout from the highest mountaintop that I had been forgiven. I turned to Roy and Niger and said, “The Lord is on the mountain,” quoting the great Martin Luther King. All they could say was “Amen!”

After hearing my side of the story, Roy realized that the controversy had unjustly spiraled out of control after the tapes were released out of context. He agreed to mentor me in my efforts to seek reconciliation and atonement for my careless language.

Before I left his office that day, I noticed that Roy’s son was wearing
a pin that had the letter “N” on it in a circle with a slash through it. I asked if I could have one.

Niger said, “Yeah, but I don’t think you should pass them out!”

I wore that pin on every show and at every appearance I made after our meeting. Even today, I carry the pin Niger gave me in my pocket when I’m out on bounty hunts. Something about having it with me makes me feel protected.

One of the fights CORE was involved in that intrigued me was the belief that the “N” word is being abused by the entertainment industry. Niger, in particular, voiced his concerns about the industry’s double standards, which allow comedians such as David Alan Grier or Dave Chappelle to be given a pass when doing skits using the “N” word, without public outcry. Rappers are also given a pass to use it with far more consistency and stereotyping. To some degree, my use of the word fell into the pass/no pass system being used in today’s pop culture. David Alan Grier did a short monologue about my use of the word and used it over and over again to make his point. There were no headlines, no fallout for his show,
Chocolate News,
and no public outcry against his tirade. I wanted to do whatever I could to help CORE resolve this issue within the entertainment industry.

After our first meeting in New York, Roy Innis had a change of heart about old Doggie. Beth and I attended a luncheon hosted by Mr. Innis at the CORE headquarters in New York, where we posed for photos and got to know his predominately African-American staff, none of whom seemed reluctant to pose with us. It had become pretty clear to most everyone there that the papers had made me out to be something I wasn’t. In fact, Roy Innis came out and publicly made a statement about the matter, saying, “Like many that heard the comments made by Duane ‘the Dog’ Chapman without the proper context, I was offended and outraged. After meeting with him and his wife Beth, and hearing his side of the story, we realized that the controversy had unjustly spiraled out of control without context.”