Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given (2010) (19 page)

There should be a government task force that gathers information from all of the white-collar criminals in the system, so we can learn from them how to better prevent these crimes in the future. Someone like Bernard Madoff will never be able to make up for the horrible crimes he committed against thousands of innocent people, but we cer
tainly could tap into his brilliance to find flaws in the system so that no one will ever be able to get away with what he did again. He could work with a team of experts, the SEC, or the Federal Reserve to show them where the system is flawed and how he was able to get away with his crimes for so long. The government should make Bernard Madoff work with the IRS or financial institutions that are in the red, day in and day out, for the rest of his life. A guy like that knows the financial system inside and out. Force him to share his knowledge and expertise so that the government might have a shot at balancing the budget or shifting the economic downturn. All of this at no cost to the government because the criminals would have to provide it for free as part of their sentence. No vacations, no days off—Madoff would have to do nothing but hard work with a purpose for the rest of his life.

If we can somehow accept these criminals for what they’ve done and use them where they fit in to help improve our way of life, we could avoid letting them lie around in prison, where they do nothing and become an absolute drain on our economy. We’re paying them to be there. We pay for their cell, their air-conditioning, their meals, the staffing of the prison, the sheriff, and round-the-clock babysitting by every guard on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And if you are going to put these people in jail, bill them! Make them pay the two hundred dollars or more a day it costs to keep them incarcerated.

People often ask me if our judicial system can be improved. The answer is
absolutely.
The system can be fixed by involving more citizens and installing a harsher range of fines. For example, if a guy steals a car, we as taxpaying citizens will pay somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred dollars or more a day to keep him in jail. In general, that thief will get probation for a first offense, putting him right back on the streets, where the likelihood is he will steal another car—or do something even worse. If he gets caught, he’s going back to jail for three to five years. If it costs two hundred dollars a day to keep that criminal in the system, it will cost you, as a taxpayer,
$365,000
to keep that
one
offender in prison for five years. That’s a lot of money!

Here’s my idea on how we can fix the system for this type of crime.
Hit them in the pocketbook. You fine the guy for every offense. The first time he is caught, it’ll cost him five grand or he will get five years. I’m pretty sure that someone will come up with that money to make sure their son, brother, boyfriend, or husband isn’t put away for five years. The next offense will cost double—ten thousand dollars or six years in prison. Again, someone has to come up with that money or he’s going away for a long time. Every offense he commits will cost him more and more money, until the financial benefit of crime just doesn’t make sense. If he boosts a car that he knows he can only get a few thousand dollars for, he’s going to think twice if it is going to cost him triple that if he gets caught. Add up the cost of the lawyer, court fees, and fines and you’re talking about a substantial amount of money.

The more serious the crime, the steeper the fine. Armed robbery would cost the perpetrator a lot more than petty theft. If you hurt someone while committing your crime, there’s no option of a fine, just mandatory jail time. If you’re a drug dealer, that eight-hundred-dollar bag of heroin will cost you eight thousand dollars in fines.

I’ve made a lot of money on the criminal justice system over the years. Every time someone jumps, I laugh because I’m going after the reward, which I always get. If you fine people for their crimes, sooner or later they will give up their ways because they won’t be able to keep coming up with the cash to get out of their situation. If they keep committing crime, they’re going away for a very long time. Believe me, they’ll get into a different line of work before they’ll choose to do hard time.

Ever since my television show hit the air, jumps from my bail bond business have gone down because no one wants to be chased by me and a camera crew. The courts have seen a significant rise in attendance and I have seen a significant decrease in “failures to appear.” Getting busted on television is humiliating for both the perpetrator and his family, but it sure is a great way to remedy crime. Beth calls this method “shame therapy.”

Most everyone has seen
Dateline NBC,
the television news program where Chris Hansen traps online predators coming to the home of un
derage girls. When the suspects meet Chris Hansen and realize they’re going to be on television for their crime, they are humiliated, embarrassed, and uncomfortable for their decision to be there. This type of bust is effective and really works as a deterrent.

If you want to catch a criminal, set up cameras on the streets. Start taping the comings and goings of suspected drug dealers’ homes. They’ll either move their entire operation in twenty-four hours—something most won’t do because they don’t know how—or blam, they’re out of business. The cost of video surveillance is minuscule compared to the man hours it would take to set up a stakeout.

Another way to lower crime is to get officers out of their patrol cars and onto the streets. Policemen ride around in their patrol cars, protecting themselves from the very people they’re out looking for. If officers began walking their beat, they’d have a much better sense of what’s really happening in those neighborhoods. They need to knock on doors and talk to the people who live in these cities and streets that they protect and serve, to hear firsthand accounts of who, what, and where they need to be searching. They need to meet the citizens who pay their salaries and hear their concerns. Then, and only then, can they be more effective and successful in reducing crime in those areas.

I believe so strongly in my ideas to cut crime that I’d be willing to stake my badge on the results. If these ideas were implemented, I would expect to see a 50 percent or more drop in crime over a period of ninety days. I hope to someday have the opportunity to bring these ideas to fruition, to test my theories and to help finally bring more peace to our communities.

(credit: Chaz)

“Y
our momma sure does have some sexy panties,” I said into the phone. One of my favorite tactics to bring in a fugitive is to slam him with a bunch of phone calls in a row, so he knows I’m on his trail and to get him to reveal some valuable information. Most times they fall right into my trap.

“What did you say about my Momma?” The voice on the other end of the line was that of a fugitive I’d been hunting for days. I was taunting him with all sorts of comments about his momma’s lingerie.

“I went through her panty drawer and touched her bras too. Man, you have a fine momma,” I told him.

And then I hung up.
Click. For whatever reason, the guy kept calling me
back. And when he did, I kept taunting him, hoping I would anger him enough so he’d call me back again, mess up, and reveal where he was hiding. I’d hit his mom’s house earlier in the day, but he wasn’t there. Even though we didn’t grab him, I was positive he’d hear we were out looking for him. Every time he called me back, he blocked the number he was calling from so I wouldn’t be able to see it on my caller ID. Whenever I saw
private number
flash on the screen of my phone, I’d pick it up and say something vulgar just to get his attention.

“Your sister is almost as hot as your momma. I’d love to see her naked.”

Click.

And the next time he called I said, “Is this smell Febreze or
at ease
?”

Click.

My phone rang again, private number.

“Hello?”

“What did you say about my momma’s panties?” the guy yelled on the other end of the line. He was getting angrier with each call. “If you ever go to my mom’s house again, I’m going to kill you!”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’m on my way back there right now,” I said. “Your momma’s pink panties were really nice. And they smell good too. I am going back to see them again. Maybe she’ll be wearing them this time…”

Click.

Eventually, I knew he’d trip up, forget to block his number, and blam, he’d be mine. Sure enough, the very next call, his number popped up on my screen. He was raging mad. He’d also found out I had been to several homes of friends and family looking for him. When I answered this time, I pulled a little reverse psychology.

“Listen, you can yell all you want, I don’t have time to talk to you right now. I’ll call you back.” Beth was in the background yelling, “We got the number! Hang up! Hang up!”

So I hung up on him.
Click
!

I could practically see the confused look on his face when I hung up the phone. The next time he called, his number was blocked again. I wasn’t sure he ever realized he’d already given us the break we’d been waiting for. Once I had the telephone number from the hard line he was calling from, I could pinpoint his location.

It wasn’t unusual for me to taunt skips like this. Whenever I talked about their moms or sisters, I knew I’d get their blood boiling and it would be just a matter of time before they made a fatal mistake allowing me to make my capture. I’ve gotten really good at tripping the psychological triggers of fugitives over the years. The more personal I get, the easier they are to find. And whenever I can’t get to them, I know I’ve got the person in my posse who can—my Beth.

I started bringing Beth on bounty hunts a couple of years after I met her in 1988, mostly because I would come home and tell her stories that
she wouldn’t believe. I said she ought to start coming with me to see what happens with her own two eyes. She was a real natural our first time out. Over the years, she has become an integral part of what I do, although her presence has forced me to change the way I work. I used be able to use my charm and good looks to get information out of people, especially women. My sweet talk was my secret weapon. These days, whenever I try to go there, Beth is right up in my business making sure I don’t. That’s when I call in one of the boys and tell them to go talk to the woman for a while. I’ll call him over, give him a wink, and send him into the lion’s den until we get what we need. Duane Lee will go right over, no hesitation. If we send Leland in, Beth will tell him to let down his ponytail because there aren’t a lot of women out there who don’t think that boy doesn’t look good with his long loose hair. And let’s be clear, what’s good for the goose is also good for gander. If Beth tries to point her “double-barreled” so-called shotguns in someone’s face, I tell her to cover those things up!

People sometimes think of Beth and me as the Bickersons, but there’s nothing more meaningful to me than being in a relationship with a strong woman who believes in me, has a mind of her own, and totally understands everything about my life. Even if it doesn’t always look like it, we’re usually working toward the same goal.

It’s true that I debate with her a lot and let her win those fights…most of the time. Even when I know she’s wrong, I always try to let her think she’s right, and to be totally fair, she usually is. Even so, I always try to be a gentleman with her. In the field, however, I’m completely different with Beth. She’s no longer my wife—she’s a crucial member of the team. Sometimes she gets upset with me when I get stern or order her to do something out on the road, but she knows I still love her. More important than that, Beth is often the reason we get our guy. I wouldn’t be able to do it without her by my side.

The guy I was taunting on the phone was a client of Mary Ellen’s, and Mary Ellen didn’t like to lose money, so not finding him wasn’t an option. Beth looked up the corresponding address to the phone number he had called from and discovered that it was a rural farmhouse in Brighton, a town just outside of Denver. We called the Brighton police to let them
know we were on our way. They said they’d give us thirty minutes to get to the farm or they’d make the bust themselves. Thirty minutes was a push for us to get geared up, make the drive, and get our guy.

Beth and I jumped into my car and floored it, driving ninety-five miles per hour in order to get there on time. I was hoping and praying we didn’t get pulled over on our way down. Beth, who is usually the driver, was on the floorboard the entire time, scared we were going to crash.

When we got to the property, we saw that the farm was set way back off the road. There were fields as far as the eye could see. If someone was looking out the window of the house, they’d spot us coming up the driveway because of the dust and debris our car kicked up on the dry dirt road. There was no way we could ever sneak up on them without being noticed.

By the time we arrived, the cops were already searching the trailer we suspected our fugitive to be hiding in. We waited outside until they finished up and came out empty-handed.

“Now let Dog look for him,” Beth said to one of the cops.

When the cops said they couldn’t find the fugitive, something inside me knew he was hiding inside the trailer. This was where he was at when his last phone call came in less than an hour earlier. Plus, it had been raining for two days and nights. There were twenty-five yards of pure mud surrounding the trailer. I took a flashlight and began circling the perimeter. I was looking for fresh footprints or some other clue that would lead me to him. There wasn’t a single footprint, so I knew he had to be in there.

“He’s in there. I know he is,” I told the commanding officer. Beth and I went back inside the trailer with a couple of the cops on the scene. Most trailers are long and narrow. There’s usually a bathroom in the center, a living room and kitchen on one side, and a bedroom on the other. When we walked through, I opened every door possible until I got to one that was locked.

“Why is this door locked?” I asked the girl who was living there. I didn’t know if she was our fugitive’s old lady, a relative, or a friend. It didn’t matter to me. I was positive she was hiding our guy.

“I know he’s in here, honey. Tell me why this door is locked.”

“It’s not locked, Dog. It’s just stuck,” she said. “I can’t get it to open.”

“Look. I know he’s here. So let me tell you how this is going to go down. If I find him behind this door and he shoots at me or he’s with one of your babies, I’m calling Social Services and they’ll come take them away, got it?” I threatened the woman right in front of the cops.

“C’mon, Dog. Let’s go. He’s not here,” one of the cops said as they all stepped out of the trailer.

And then the girl turned to Beth and asked, “Can I get my baby out of the room before you search it?”

“Absolutely, of course you can,” Beth sweetly replied. If a mother asks if she can get her baby before we search a place, we know our guy’s in there. Beth and I gave each other “the look,” which is a particular exchange of glances that we call our “Bonnie and Clyde” look. Our eyes grow wide and we don’t have to speak a word—we just know what’s coming next.

No sooner did the girl have the baby in her arms than I was right there behind her searching the room. As I knelt down to look under the bed, I saw the seam of an old pair of jeans through the slat of the closet door.

“Either those are really dirty jeans and they’re standing up all by themselves or we’ve got a real mofo hiding in the closet! FREEZE!” I yelled.

When they heard the commotion, the cops came rushing back into the room. I looked up at the three stooges standing there and said, “We got him.”

Beth walked over to the sheriff, pointed her forefinger right at me, and said, “
He
got him!”

In the meantime, our guy refused to come out of the trailer. He began whining like a girl. “You can’t let him take me. I don’t want to be caught by Dog. He’s going to kill me! Help! Somebody, anybody!” He was swinging his arms and kicking his feet, doing everything he could to avoid being taken by the Dog. I finally put him in a headlock and carried him out under my arm like a football.

The cops were embarrassed by their inability to find the guy. There was no way they’d ever tell the truth in their report. I handed the cuffed prisoner over to the local deputy, who put him in the back of a patrol car. One of the cops told me the guy we caught was a member of the Aryan Nations. Beth and I were stunned, because he was being such a sissy.
Being stuffed into the back of a cruiser made the guy even more irate than he already was. He began calling me names, saying I was a half-breed mofo and that the Brotherhood was out to kill me. I didn’t pay much attention.

When you’re cuffed with your hands behind your back, the only thing you can do is move your upper body around. Suddenly, the guy started banging his head against the Plexiglas shield between the front and back seats of the police car. He hit his head so hard that he busted it open. No one did a thing except let the poor bastard bleed in the backseat.

Every now and again, I caught a glimpse of Beth, who was standing next to the patrol car and had balanced her flashlight in her cleavage, shining the bright light right in his eyes. “You’re a punk-ass jerk!” she’d hiss, and then whenever the cops strolled by, she’d quickly turn her flashlight in the opposite direction, and look around, whistling. When they’d turn around again, she’d shine that light right back in his face. Eventually, an officer caught her in the act.

“Ma’am,” he said. “You have your light in the prisoner’s eyes. Would you kindly turn it off?”

Beth acted as though she didn’t realize what she had been doing. “Oh really?” she asked innocently. She removed the flashlight and began spinning it like a baton between her fingers.

The prisoner kept yelling at Beth, “At least Dog didn’t get me! Ha ha!”

“Whatever,” Beth fired back. “Dog got you. He’s just not taking you in. Either way you’re going to jail right now in care of the Dog—signed, sealed, and delivered!”

After that capture, I went through about a year or so of guys on the run getting caught by the cops and telling them, “Thank God you got me, because I didn’t want to get brought in by Dog.” For whatever reason, they feared being caught by me more than the police. I never understood it because I’m the guy who will buy you a Coke, give you a smoke, and let you call your old lady or momma before taking you in. Their logic never made any sense to me.

A lot of criminals like to brag they’re the one that got away from the Dog. Let me tell you something about that. No one gets away from me. Not now—not ever. In an ironic twist, a few years ago my brother Mike was in
jail. He called to tell me about a guy I put in the joint who loaned him a couple of cigarettes.

“Is he mad at you because I popped him?” I asked.

Mike quickly shot back, “No! He really likes me. And everyone in here loves this guy.”

“Why is that?” I was curious to know the reason.

“Because you put him in here,” Mike answered. “The guys you capture, Dog, they’re the coolest cats in jail. They’ve got bragging rights no one else has. It took the Dog to capture and put him in this hellhole and not some cop.”

That was the first time it had ever occurred to me that it was prestigious to be caught by the Dog.

Our conversation got me thinking about what it would be like if I someday ran for sheriff. I’d like to find some small town that has criminals running amok. I’d be just like Sheriff Buford Pusser in
Walking Tall,
doing whatever was needed to whip that town back into shape. I’d be incorruptible and intolerant of crime, while cleaning up the streets and making the town a safer place to live.