You Can Run but You Can't Hide (44 page)

What the hell was happening?

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Beth is the realist in our

family. She speaks the truth, whether I want to hear it or not. I was

quickly losing faith that the Lord was going to get me out. I got

what I wanted. I was the most famous bounty hunter in the world.

Would the Lord play such a horrible joke on me by giving me that

title and making me pay for it by spending twenty years in a Mexi-

can prison?
No way
. This was the work of the devil. I’ve met the de-

vil. More than once he has said to me, “I know you, boy, and you

know me.” Hell, yeah. This was his work.

I began to pray. I kept thinking about a documentary I once saw

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about sea turtles. They go back to the same spot once every year

with a single grain of sand in their gullet. Scientists say it is a re-

markable feat. At that moment, I felt like one of those turtles. I had

the faith of a grain of sand. What I needed was the faith of a mus-

tard seed. I prayed to the Lord, “All I have is the faith of a single

grain of sand, Lord. Is that enough to get me through this?”

I heard the Lord say, “Turn around, Duane. There are four more

grains of sand behind you. Together, each of your grains of sand

measures up to the strength and faith of a mustard seed.”

The Lord, in all of His great and infinite wisdom, was right. I

pulled us all together until we formed a circle. Together, we gave

praise. “Right now, in Jesus’ name, thank you, Lord, for what You

did when You led us to Luster. But now, this is the second step.

Show us that You’re watching over us, Lord. Show us You love us. In

Jesus’ name, amen.”

My lawyer walked into the cell as we prayed.

“Duane, I have good news and bad news.”

Being the man I am, I told him to give me the bad news first.

“They’ve added a charge of association. Essentially what that

means is that you all conspired to commit this crime. If you can

prove you’re blood-related, they will drop that charge.” I excitedly

pointed out that Leland is my son. Jorge thought that might be

enough to get the charges dropped, but he couldn’t be sure until he

went to court.

Boris turned and asked, “So, what’s the good news?

“They’ve dropped the kidnapping charges. They are only going

to charge you with holding Luster against his will, deprivation of

liberty. It’s a petty crime.”

We all went completely nuts. I shouted,
“Viva la Mexico!”
I just

dodged the biggest, scariest bullet ever shot my way. I hadn’t felt

this happy since I was given parole from Huntsville. Right then, I

realized the cops loved me, because they unlocked my cell so I could

dance with joy. I hugged every cop in the joint.

“Is there bail?” You can take the bondsman out of America but

you can’t take the bondsman out of the Dog.

“Yes. Fifteen thousand pesos each.”

I added up the total. Damn. We didn’t have seventy-five grand in

the bank to get us out. Then it occurred to me the lawyer said
pesos.

“How much is that in American dollars?”

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“About fifteen hundred each.”

I knew I had friends who would help get us out for that kind of

money, including Tony Robbins, Chris McQuarrie, Martin Sheen,

Vin Di Bona. They all helped.

As I celebrated, I heard the Lord say, “Do you want to stay

here?” I most certainly did not.

I turned to the guys and said, “We’re out of here.”

The next morning we were charged with the misdemeanor. Pro-

cedure was to transfer us to the Jalisco State Penitentiary, where we

had to wait to be set free. This place made Huntsville look like a

Hawaiian paradise. It’s the worst of the Mexican prisons. We all

knew we’d be out in a matter of hours, but I felt like I was checking

in for life.

We were all placed in separate cells. As the day passed slowly,

painfully by, I kept hearing one of the prisoners from another cell

sing “Who Let the Dogs Out.” He was singing it in Spanish, but I

recognized the tune.

I yelled, “You hear that? We’re getting out, boys. You know we’re

leaving here, right?” I needed to make sure no one cracked under the

pressure. One wrong move and the decision to drop the kidnapping

charges could turn into a “mistake.” I didn’t want to rock the boat.

“Dog, you made bail. You’re out. C’mon. Let’s go.” The guards

came and told us one by one we had posted bail. We were free to go,

one at a time.

Something didn’t seem right, though. Why did I have this nag-

ging sense I was being set up? I got dressed, walked outside, and

heard:

“Freeze!
La Migra
.”

Son of a bitch. It was Immigration. Six guys surrounded me,

guns drawn and cocked. All I could think of was “This is what we

do to them in our country. It’s about right I’m being screwed with in

Mexico.” I had posted bond so many times for illegal Mexicans,

only to see them get out and face American immigration. I was all

too familiar with this scene.

Immigration took us back to the first hellhole jail. I never saw

Tim look so sad. The emotional roller coaster was taking a toll on

all of us, but Tim seemed to be taking it the worst. Those bastards

painted a fresh coat of sugar water on the floor before we arrived,

so the flies were plentiful.

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Early the next morning, I was told we could talk to the immigra-

tion officer. My lawyer had arranged a Sunday morning meeting.

He said the immigration bail wouldn’t be much money, perhaps a

total of another fifteen hundred dollars.

The immigration officer was a pretty friendly guy. He was curi-

ous about our documents when we entered the country. He wanted

to know how we filled out the form that asked the purpose of our

trip. Was it business or pleasure?

When I came through customs, I told the officer I was here to

look for a fugitive and for a vacation. The boys and I never handed

in our immigration cards. We still had them with us. I had never

traveled outside of the United States before this trip. I was under the

impression these cards were supposed to get handed in on depar-

ture, not arrival. No one ever asked for the papers. I handed the of-

ficer my form. It confirmed everything I said.

When I came out of the office, my lawyer’s face was white as a

fresh layer of snow on a Colorado mountaintop.

“What’s the matter?”

“That was the judge.”

I had no idea. I thought I had been talking to an officer who

would report my story to the judge.

Just then, the immigration judge came out of his office. He

turned to my attorney and said, “It’s Sunday. I will trust this man

until his money can be wired in tomorrow. I’m going to let him go.

But I want an armed guard on him until he posts bail.”

Fair enough. We were allowed to check into the Westin Hotel

until the rest of this god-awful mess could be cleared up and our

nightmare would finally be over.

My lawyer told each of us the hotel rooms would most definitely

be bugged. He said the Mexican government likes to record every-

thing. He warned us not to say or do anything that might set us

back from finally going home. Guards followed our every move. I

didn’t care. It had been a living hell. The Westin Hotel was a slice of

heaven.

The boys and I walked into one of the restaurants in the hotel to

get our first decent meal in weeks. Thirty Americans stood up and

cheered for us. The ex-wife of one of Def Leppard’s band members

came over to introduce herself.

“Way to go. Anything you want, it’s on me.”

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275

I told her I had a girlfriend back home. She started to laugh.

“No, not that. You need drinks? Food? Whatever, it’s on my

bill.”

We didn’t know we had become hometown heroes. The warm

welcome we received from our fellow Americans was downright

heartwarming. I was never more proud to be a citizen of the United

States.

C h a p t e r F i f t y - o n e

AMERICA THE

BEAUTIFUL

A day after
we checked into the Westin, my lawyer came to see

us. He said he’d heard rumors that a few guys connected to Andrew

Luster were in Puerto Vallarta looking for me. He heard the guys

were flashing around a lot of money to influence certain people in

the Mexican legal system to reinstate the kidnapping charges.

Worst of all, Jorge said he also heard someone talking about taking

me out—lights out, for good.

“You and the boys have to go.” He was legally advising me to

flee. I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of running. I was under

house arrest. If I ran, I would be a Mexican fugitive for the rest of

my life and I didn’t want that hanging over my head. Besides, by

now you all know, “This blood don’t run.”

I
chased
fugitives, I wasn’t one. Plus, I promised the immigration

judge I wouldn’t run. I told him he could trust me. A man is as good

as his word, and I am a man of my word. I told the lawyer I wouldn’t

go. The alternative was to stay in Puerto Vallarta until my case

went to trial. It could be six weeks, six months, or six years. No one

knew for sure.

The Westin Hotel bill was upwards of nine or ten thousand dol-

lars. We decided it made more sense financially to rent a house un-

til our trial. We found a place through Min and Mona’s stepdaughter,

Gina. She knew a woman named Silver who used to be married to

an American bounty hunter. She was living in Puerto Vallarta in a

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277

gorgeous home with vast ocean views. I wanted to go live there un-

til everything settled down. It was peaceful serenity after everything

we had been through. Another factor was that the hotel became a

magnet for American tourists and the international press who

wanted a glimpse of me. Hotel management told me they had never

seen anything like it. It was good for business, but under the cir-

cumstances, it was hard for me to take people in my face 24/7. Also,

I didn’t feel safe there, especially after what the lawyer told me.

Beth wired me three thousand dollars so I could pay for the house a

month in advance. She planned to visit with the kids first chance

they got.

While I was in Puerto Vallarta, it occurred to me that my home

in Hawaii was a straight shot across the Pacific. I thought back to

that day on the beach when the Lord pointed me straight ahead.

Until that moment, I didn’t realize He was telling me to go to Mex-

ico. I was overwhelmed by the connection.

In retrospect, it was in the Mexican government’s best interest to

get me out of the country. It made me less accessible to their sys-

tem, but it took the microscope off of them too. Luster was already

gone. He was sent back to California almost immediately. The

United States government had a provisional warrant to deport Lus-

ter because he entered Mexico illegally.

The rub here is that Luster got deported while I sat in a Mexican

prison.

I thought long and hard about what Jorge was saying. He told

me I was as good as dead. Jorge told me he couldn’t control what

happened in Mexico, nor could he guarantee my safety. By court or-

der, I had to check in every day with the immigration judge. After

my last visit with him, I realized it was time to leave Mexico. Tim

kept telling me he felt the Mexicans wanted us gone. Although it

meant I would break my word to the judge, I came to the same con-

clusion. I finally told Jorge I would leave on the condition he came

with us. I wanted my lawyer present just in case anything unex-

pected happened. He reluctantly agreed.

I drove to Western Union to pick up the money Beth sent. I

got back to the hotel room where Leland and Tim were anxiously

waiting.

I called Beth. Knowing our conversation was being recorded I

simply said two words, “Le Parc.”

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She said, “When?”

“Now.”

Jorge, the boys, and I packed up our stuff, loaded the rented van,

and acted as if we were headed to Silver’s. The highway on-ramp

toward Guadalajara was a short distance from the house. Leland

and Tim kept a close watch to make sure no one was following us.

“It’s clear, Dad.” Leland gave me the signal to get on the highway.

Jorge told me that we would be safe outside Puerto Vallarta. Even

so, I wanted him to go with us. We went through four separate check-

points. We let Jorge do the talking at each one. We tried to act cool,

but deep down, I was scared to death. We made it to Guadalajara

without a hitch. Our plan was to check into a hotel until we could

catch a flight the next morning to Tijuana. We had to lie low. No one

could know we’d left Puerto Vallarta. I wasn’t exactly unrecogniz-