Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given (2010) (20 page)

Whenever I go to small towns or big cities, I go without fear. Whether it’s Medicine Hat, Canada, with a population of fifty thousand; south central Los Angeles; or Harlem, New York—I’m not afraid to get in the trenches and meet the people in troubled places and try to help them see there’s a better way.

While I was up in Canada in 2008 doing an appearance in Medicine Hat, some of the local police officers began telling me of a particularly bad area of town they named the “needle district.” The officers said they didn’t like to go into that area of town because the hookers and junkies were known to stick you with their dirty old needles. They asked my opinion on how to clean up the district.

“You want my thoughts, fellas? All right. Here’s what I think you need to do. First, you’ve got to start driving through the streets. Then, you’ve got to get out of your patrol cars. If someone tries to stab you with a needle, break their arm. Take your billy club out of the holster, walk down the street, and use it if you have to. It’s as simple as that.” When you go to
dangerous areas with no fear of law enforcement, you have to believe you’re Superman. That fearless attitude is how I face every risky situation I’m in on a daily basis.

Bounty hunting has led me to some of the most dangerous places in the country. Although I may be unsure of my surroundings from time to time, as I search a violent neighborhood, crowded street, or dark back alley, I can never let doubt or fear creep into my mind. If I do, I know I’m a goner. I have to have supreme confidence in my ability to track a fugitive down no matter where I am. That’s not to say I take any environment for granted. On the contrary, my head has to be on a swivel at all times, no matter what. But I never limit any hunt simply because a fugitive has run off and hidden in a bad area. As everyone already knows, I will go to the far ends of the earth to catch my man.

When I was twenty-five years old, I found myself hunting for a fugitive named Lupe in Compton, California. Back in the day, this was an area white boys didn’t hang around if they wanted to live. I took a cab from Los Angeles International Airport to the ’hood, armed with forty copies of Lupe’s mug shot. I started passing out the papers like I was the Pied Piper. Within twenty minutes I had fifteen kids behind me walking around looking for Lupe. I caught a glimpse of my guy just as he was climbing out the second-story window of his apartment building.

I cupped my hands around the sides of my mouth and screamed up, “Freeze! Don’t you move! This whole place is surrounded. Come out the side door right now or I’m coming up there to get you.” I looked around as if I motioned to someone and shouted, “It’s OK, Lieutenant. Stand down. Don’t shoot.” Of course, there were no cops, but Lupe didn’t know that. Within minutes, he surrendered and I got my man.

The police actually pulled up just as I was leaving.

“Hey, buddy, do you have any paperwork to take this man into custody?” one of the officers asked.

“I sure do. It’s right here,” I answered, handing over all of the documentation they needed to let us go. The officer looked at the papers and then glanced at me over the top of his silver aviator glasses. “Do you know where you’re at?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. I’m in Compton.” I wasn’t sure if it was a trick question or not, so I decided to be straight in my answer and not mouth off.

“If you were smart, you would get your ass out of here…NOW!”

I turned to the officer to make sure it was safe for me to leave with the prisoner and said, “Can I go?”

“Go? You ought to run. Do you know how lucky you are to be alive? Take your guy and don’t ever come back to this neighborhood again.” The officer handed my paperwork back to me and pointed for me to beat it.

As I was driving away, a carload of Crips stopped me. I got out of my car and asked if they knew the guy I was bringing in. Most of them did.

“Do you know what this bastard is wanted for? He’s a damned child molester. I hate anyone who commits crimes against babies!”

All of the guys started in on Lupe in the backseat of the car, taunting and making fun of him.

“Hey, Lupe, looks like you’re going away for a while, homie,” one of them said.

“And he’s worth ten thousand to me for bringing him in,” I told them.

Woops. I quickly realized I probably shouldn’t have said that to a bunch of gangbangers. I fumbled for a moment and said, “I don’t have the money on me. I need to turn him in first, so don’t get any ideas, boys.”

I flashed them a smile and we all had a good laugh. From the moment I started my career as a bounty hunter, I quickly realized I had more friends in the criminal realm than anywhere else. There are more people who love me there than hate me. That’s a good place to be in my line of work.

Throughout the years, I’ve routinely found myself in neighborhoods I probably don’t “belong in,” at least not without chasing a fugitive. When I was in New York City for the Martin Luther King CORE dinner, in early 2008, I decided I wanted to take a ride up to Harlem one afternoon to check it out. I had never been there before, but I felt a pull to make a visit on that particular trip. My usual driver in New York hesitantly asked if I was sure I wanted to take the drive to that part of Manhattan. Considering we were still dealing with the fallout from the
National Enquirer
tapes, he thought it wouldn’t be such a good idea to travel through a predominately black neighborhood. Despite his concern, I emphatically said, “Yes!”

On our way up to Harlem, I asked the driver, “Have I ever told you about my rodeo days?”

“No, Dog,” he said.

When I was twenty-two years old, I rode bucking broncos at a farm in Pampa, Texas. I’d never ridden wild horses before, but I knew I could do it. The trainer told me he’d give me seventy dollars for every horse I could tame. It took me two or three days to break the horses I rode, but I did it with ease and comfort. I got so good at it I decided to enter a local rodeo and try my hat at being a real cowboy.

I showed up with my long hair and biker boots on while the other rodeo riders had their hair cut short and wore traditional gear. I thought that my extra tall cowboy hat would help me fit in, but it didn’t. It mostly made me stand out. One of the guys turned to me and said, “What are you doing here, man? You don’t belong here. This is not your world, biker boy. You’re not one of us. Why don’t you get the hell out of here?”

I knew I had the talent to be one of the best rodeo cowboys in the world. I didn’t understand why this guy was telling me to get out before I even had the chance to prove myself. I’ve never been the type of guy to back down from a situation just because someone else tells me I can’t do it. Telling me I shouldn’t do it is the best way to get me to do something.

My driver understood what I was telling him as we made our way up the West Side Highway along the Hudson River toward 125th Street, the heart of Harlem. I wasn’t afraid to go someplace just because someone might not think I belonged. I knew in my heart that the only way to make peace with the people I’d hurt was to be among them. We drove through the historic neighborhood with the darkened windows of our shiny black SUV rolled down so people could see Dog was in the ’hood. That’s when our experience began.

“Dog, Dog! Hey, brother. Don’t worry. We love you!” A young black man chased after the car as we slowly moved up the street. He began shouting to his friends that Dog was in the car. People began walking over and circling the vehicle as we stopped for a red light. I shook as many hands as I could while several people snapped pictures of Beth and me on their cell phones. Our driver was nervous, suggesting we get out of there as soon
as we could, but I never felt threatened for one single second. As the light turned green, I heard a woman shout out, “He’s a fricken racist.” I never saw her, but I heard her loud and clear. It broke my heart. Beth could see I was upset.

“It’s OK, Big Daddy. They loved you. They all knew you didn’t mean to use that word…” She did her best to console me, but at the time, I still felt like that woman spoke for so many others. I thought about the experience the whole way back to our hotel. It felt good to see my many brothers and sisters reach out their hands, as if they had accepted my olive branch of peace by being there and loving me that day. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Beth was right. They knew I’m not a racist. One woman’s voice couldn’t drown out the sound of everyone else’s love and forgiveness. Mercy was alive and well and, apparently, living in Harlem!

END OF INTERMISSION TWO

(credit: Chaz)

O
ne of the greatest benefits of being on television is having the chance to give back to the community. One of the ways I do that is by participating in local outreach programs where I can meet and mingle with people who are searching for a reason to change their lives, and need guidance to take those steps and encouragement to get there. A&E started a program called the A&E Recovery Project. Its mission is to reach out to the more than 22 million Americans who suffer from addictions, as well as their family members, friends, and colleagues, who are all touched by the disease. The Recovery Project was “created to break the stigma of addiction, raise awareness that addiction is a treatable disease and prove that recovery is possible.”

In the spring of 2009, I took part in a rally held in Honolulu to help spread the word for A&E, the network that had shown me that I was worthy of a second chance and was now telling thousands of people in my hometown that they were worthy of a second chance too. The atmosphere of this event was exceptionally different from most of my personal appearances. It wasn’t quite the somber feeling of a funeral, but no one was there to celebrate. It was something in between—a situation I’ll never forget. Not one fan asked for an autograph or to take a picture with me. They were there for help. For a few people, it was pretty obvious this was a last chance stop.

Some of the people who came to the event were looking for a helping hand themselves, while many others were there to plead for their children’s well-being. They were all looking to me to wave some magic wand and make their pain disappear. I wish it were that easy, but it’s not. Lord knows, I’ve seen it happen in my life over and over again. I’ve never been one for tough love, but I’m not a roll-over-me type of guy, either. There’s always a solution—the trick is finding the right one for you.

I always tell people that God will give you answers to all of life’s problems and worries. Here’s the thing—He won’t always give you answers that you will like. Sometimes the solution appears worse than the problem, like jail, illness, and such. If a couple of months behind bars is what it takes to get clean, then ultimately, that’s the right solution. I don’t want to help someone after they’ve been brought to their knees unless that’s the only time I get the chance to. I’d rather help people fix themselves before they bottom out. I know how hard that is firsthand from my own experience getting off drugs.

Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, boyfriends, and girlfriends all want to know, “What would
you
do, Dog?”

I’m always brutally honest when I answer that question, because these people are seeking life-saving advice, so I’d better be right in what I have to say. I tell them to go to the police and report the user. Get him into rehab. Sit your kid down and talk to him. Sit there and tell him you were also once a teenager. Tell him about your own experiences with drinking or drugs. If you raised hell when you were a kid, you can count on your child being the same way. There’s no shame in youth. Experimentation is natural.

However, if there is a predisposition to addiction in your family, it is your obligation as a parent to help prevent your child from suffering with the disease she inherited from you. Today, more than ever, kids have access to information through the Internet where they can make dangerous drugs out of common household items and over-the-counter drugs that are easily accessible. They live with twice the amount of peer pressure I grew up with, which means they have to be twice as
strong, twice as educated, and twice as secure with who they are to stay on the right side of the law.

If you struggle with addiction, chances are pretty good that your kids will too. If you got help, they’ll need it, too. If you’re still struggling, get help together. There’s no gray area when it comes to getting sober. You can’t be a little bit of an addict.

My grandpa used to say I was the greatest dreamer he ever met. He’d say, “Watch your fantasies because you’re the kind of guy that can make those dreams come true.” To this day I think of myself as a dreamer and totally believe that is one of my greatest gifts. I tell people all the time that I started off as an ugly caterpillar, but through a miraculous metamorphosis, I turned into a beautiful butterfly. If I can change my life with a seventh-grade education, as a convicted felon and a former drug user—
anyone
can.

I spoke to the crowd at the Recovery Project event the same way as I am writing these words to you. My message comes from the deepest part of my heart and soul because despite everything I know as a parent, all of the positive messages I tried to instill in my own kids, and all of the life experiences I’ve had over the years, one of my children is still so very lost.

I shared something very personal with the crowd on that special night, something that is always difficult to admit as a parent. My son Tucker was back in jail for failing his mandatory drug test. His probation officer caught him with the prosthetic penis he’d been using to pass the tests. In a show of mercy, his parole officer gave him the opportunity to come back the following week to retest. He told him to go get clean, but my son couldn’t do it. If I was still a part of his day-to-day life, I would have made sure he showed up clean as a whistle the following week. Unfortunately, I was unaware of his situation until it was too late. Baby Lyssa came to me to say Tucker was so messed up on drugs. She was as worried as the rest of us. Even though my son and her brother betrayed us, he’s still my baby. I thought about the story in the Bible where Jesus asks God to forgive the guys who were crucifying him, by saying, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”
I always wondered why he didn’t call upon ten thousand angels to set him free instead of asking the Lord to forgive his enemies. After the news of Tucker had broken, I received phone calls from all sorts of people offering to “take care” of Tucker for what he had done to me. That’s when it occurred to me that the love Jesus had for those men was the same as the love I feel for my son. No matter what happened, I had to forgive Tucker “for he knows not what he has done.” So when I heard he was back in prison, I worried someone would hurt him inside the joint. I put out the word and prayed others would understand that I had forgiven him and they should too.

Whether he wants it or not, I’m going to love him as much as I do Duane Lee, Leland, and all of my kids, for the rest of his life. The sad and ironic truth is that Tucker is back in prison for the exact reason I warned him about during our last phone call.

I’d spent too many sleepless nights worrying about Tucker in the short time we’d been estranged. Every time I heard an ambulance or siren in the middle of the night I’d pop up in bed and beg God, “Please, help Tucker. Don’t let that siren be for him.” Now, when I heard a siren I could take a deep breath and know for sure it wasn’t for him. He was safe in jail. Only a parent who has exhausted every other option can understand the strange sense of relief I felt knowing it was better that my child be locked up than on the street.

After I finished sharing this news with the audience that night, I looked up and saw parents putting their arms around their kids, to hold their child just a little closer. I looked into the front row and saw a bad-ass-looking, tatted up young man touch his mother’s knee. And then I noticed a little boy about Gary Boy’s age, certainly no older than nine or ten, lay his head on his mom’s chest and begin to cry. She was gently caressing him, consoling him because even this child knew that what I was saying was real. I don’t know the circumstances of that youngster’s life, but I’m positive drugs have touched his family in a way that scares him to death.

When I was done speaking, I literally felt like I had given all I had to the crowd. I was mentally exhausted and physically drained. I thought
about the story in the Bible where Jesus was walking along a path to speak on top of a mountain. A large crowd was following him along the way. Jesus’s disciples were holding back the crowd, who were trying to reach out and touch the Savior. They believed He could create miracles if they could just have contact with Him. The Bible says there was a sick woman who touched the hem of His garment as He walked by, and when she did, Jesus stopped to ask John who had reached out to Him.

John pointed to the woman and said, “She did.”

Jesus said he felt like a lot of virtue had gone out of Him. He turned to the woman and said, “You are healed,” and then kept walking. I felt the exact same way when I was done speaking. All of my virtue was gone. I poured every bit of myself into the crowd. Hearing testimonials from people afterward made it all worthwhile. I can’t think of any higher compliment than to hear someone tell me that something I said helped them turn their life around. I want to be the fixer for these people because they don’t have anyone else to turn to. I’m the guy who is going to give them that last bit of hope. I’m not satisfied unless they are, which means I need them to leave with a changed perspective and a desire to live a better life than they had before they showed up. I derive my happiness, wholeness, and feeling of being complete from knowing the crowd left pleased. That night was exceptional in every way. If just one person heard my message that night and decided to do something about it, I would have been satisfied with the result.

Not long after that appearance, a man walked up and began telling me he’d just put his son in jail a couple days earlier. He said, “Dog, I heard your message and all you had to say a few weeks ago about losing a child. Putting my son in jail was the hardest thing I have ever done, but I realized you were right. There’s nothing I won’t do to help one of my children stay clean, even sending him to prison. I now know how you feel whenever I hear an ambulance or police siren late at night. I no longer wonder if it’s my boy they’ve got. I will not love my son to death. Thank you, Dog.”

I was standing with a friend from A&E at the time. I put one hand
on his shoulder and the other on this man’s. I looked at my buddy and said, “Here’s our one.”

His response was quick and to the point. “I think there will be more than one this time, Dog. Many more.”

My grandpa used to tell me that the military was successful in training soldiers because they could tear a man down and build him back up to be faster, smarter, sharper, and more aware than when they started. It wasn’t until I began studying with Tony Robbins that I realized you didn’t have to be in the military to have those methods work for you. I once asked Tony his opinion on how to help people get off drugs. We opened up a dialogue on whether addiction was, in fact, a disease. I told him I thought that addiction was like an uncontrollable virus that spreads. Tony said he felt there are always signs of a spreading virus. In some cases it may be lesions, while in others it could be a limp. “If they’ve got a limp, you’ve got to give them a crutch,” Tony said.

That’s when it occurred to me that there were lots of nonthreatening crutches to offer. It could be the Bible, watching television, reading a book, or anything else that helps you relax and unwind from your stressed-out daily life. Taking a drink of alcohol, smoking a joint, or popping a pill here and there may not seem harmful, but I fully believe it’s not the long-term answer.

In the spring of 2009, I got a phone call from a guy named Bobby Magnuson, asking me if I would bond out his girlfriend, who I’ll refer to as Darlene. She had been arrested on drug charges. Bobby told me that she had a terrible methamphetamine problem and that he would only put up the bond for her if she promised to go to rehab and quit doing drugs. She agreed to get clean, so Bobby put up the collateral to get her out of jail.

They went to rehab together, but soon after they arrived, Darlene split in the middle of the night. Bobby left rehab to find her and bring her back. He called her over and over until she finally answered her phone. Bobby could tell she was high.

“Why do you have to be such a big pussy? Why don’t you just leave
me alone? I don’t love you. Quit calling me!” Darlene was lashing out at Bobby, but she was too wasted to care.

“I’m going to kill myself if you don’t come back to rehab. I swear, I’ll do it. I can’t live without you!” I think Bobby believed that threatening her would help Darlene come to her senses. Instead, it backfired.

“Why do you keep threatening to kill yourself? Why can’t you be a man and just do it already!” Those were the last words he heard from the love of his life before Bobby threw a rope over the tallest branch of the largest tree he could find and hung himself. Just before he put the noose around his neck, he called Darlene one last time and left a message on her voice mail.

“I told you not to push me. I hope you’re happy now. It’s over.” Bobby hung himself, but his phone never disconnected, so Darlene could hear the sounds of him choking until there was dead silence except for one single bird chirping in the background. Bobby was dead.

When Beth found out about Bobby’s death, she called Darlene up and told her to come in and see us. She was crying from the moment she walked through the door. I looked at Darlene and said, “You know that Bobby is dead because of you, right? You wouldn’t get off the dope, you dared him to kill himself, and now he’s dead. You’re under arrest.”