Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given (2010) (5 page)

The homestead rests on the banks of the Potomac River. We were invited to tour the mansion as well as a dozen outbuildings, including the slave quarters, kitchen, stables, and greenhouse. George and Martha Washington’s final resting place is also on the grounds. They’re buried in a tomb where memorial ceremonies are held daily. The Slave Memorial and Burial Ground are also close to the tomb.

Seeing Mount Vernon was extremely emotional for me. I didn’t expect to have the type of visceral reaction to it that I did. Washington’s spirit and all that he stood for drew me to Mount Vernon, and being there deeply moved me.

When we got to the home, we were assigned a bright young tour guide to drive us around and show us the site. He pointed at an apple tree and said, “That tree has been here since the house was built.” I asked if I could take an apple off the tree. I wanted to plant the seeds at my home in Hawaii. These were apple seeds from the same tree
George Washington ate from. That was huge. I knew that this visit would be significant to me, but I had no way of knowing what a huge impact it would end up having on my life.

The guide began telling us stories about George and his best friend, who happened to be one of his slaves. Even though the man was George’s closest confidant, he had to call him a slave so no one else could own him. I asked the guide how he knew these stories. He explained that George Washington kept meticulous notes on his life and left them behind so that we could all know his history.

That story reminded me of my good friend Whitaker, who was my cellmate back at Huntsville prison, where I had been sentenced to serve five years for first-degree murder, a crime I didn’t commit, though I had some involvement.

I got to Huntsville in 1977, when it was still a segregated prison. The prison population was predominately black. The two-story cell block had white inmates on one side and the blacks on the other. They painted the white section a pale lime green. It was dreary and dull, the kind of color you found inside an old hospital.

It took me a while to get into a groove in prison. I was a cocky twenty-four-year-old biker who thought he had all the answers. Everything I did, I did the hard way. I had no idea what the easy way meant. Six months into my sentence I still hadn’t learned how to pick my battles. What seemed like minor disagreements were of major importance in the joint, because that’s all you have on the inside—right and wrong. A few days after a scuffle I had with the Muslims, they sent a guy named Whitaker after me. I felt confident going up against him because we were about the same size. We stared each other down. I always talked all kinds of bull before my fights to try and psych out my opponents. To my surprise, Whitaker was aware of my game. Before I could throw my first punch, he landed a few on me, but I never went down. I’ve taken a lot of punches, but I’ve never felt anything like Whitaker’s. He was the strongest man to ever hit me. The few punches I landed on him had no effect on the guy. Whitaker kicked my ass that day. Because
I never backed down, I earned the respect of the other inmates, and Whitaker and I emerged as friends. I was so impressed with his technique I asked him to teach me how to fight like him so I could become a better fighter.

Not long after Whitaker and I got into our fight, Huntsville was desegregated. It was the last Texas penitentiary to be integrated. Feds surrounded the prison with guns and said, “Integrate them today.” The warden looked over to see the white prisoners standing to one side and the blacks on the other. Nobody was moving. I was the first to proudly walk across the yard to stand tall with my black brothers.

A giant and very dark-skinned inmate looked at me and said, “You’re on our side of town now, Doggie.”

“No matter what side of town I’m on, I’m still the Dog,” I barked back.

Just then I noticed a guy I called Cadbury standing right beside me. He had walked across the line too.

“I’m his sidekick,” Cadbury said.

Pretty soon twenty-five white guys had crossed over. The warden looked at one of the feds and said, “We’ll integrate by morning.”

Remember, this was 1970s America. The rest of the country had already pretty much desegregated. As a half-breed, I never wanted anyone to judge me on the color of my skin. I was proud of my heritage and figured the brothers in prison were too. Sure, we used the “N” word in the joint, but it wasn’t a derogatory term, at least not the way I heard it being used. It was just the way the black inmates talked to one another. In a way, from the moment I crossed the segregation line I believed I had become a brother too. The more I hung out with them, the more I started to use the same language they did because I wanted to fit in and be like them. The men I served time with never once told me I was out of line or about to get my ass kicked for using the “N” word or any other slang term I picked up along the way. I didn’t realize the “N” word was bad or insulting. Never. Did that make me ignorant? I suppose it did, yet, in retrospect, perhaps in
an innocent way. I just didn’t know any different and no one ever told me otherwise.

On the night the prison integrated, one of the black inmates asked me why I came over to their side. I didn’t know the answer. I just did what I thought was right. I wasn’t raised to see men as black, white, red, or yellow. I didn’t think of any one person as being lower or less important in society than another. To me, we were all the same, especially inside the joint.

Ironically, Whitaker, who had once been my foe, ended up becoming my cellmate and a good friend for the rest of my incarceration, which thankfully lasted only eighteen months of the full five years I was sentenced to serve. Whenever inmates saw Whitaker and me walking together, they’d shout, “There goes Salt and Pepper.” We keep in touch to this day.

I spent most of my eighteen months in Huntsville hanging with the homies. After I crossed the color line, I became a counselor to a lot of those men. The white boys didn’t require counseling—they got whatever they needed through the system. For some reason, I was the guy the black inmates came to with their problems—like when their woman wrote to break up with them or their momma died. I helped these men cope with their loss so they wouldn’t do anything stupid like trying to escape, though some ended up trying to anyway.

My bounty hunting career was unofficially launched at Huntsville when I captured Bigfoot, a prisoner who was trying to make a run for it. Lieutenant Hillegeist, also known as Big Lou, drew his .38 and took aim at Bigfoot as he ran. We all knew Big Lou had the right to shoot the escaping convict.

“Don’t, Big Lou!” I yelled, without considering what I was saying, then took off after Bigfoot. Once I started chasing Bigfoot, I swear that I heard the click of Big Lou’s gun being cocked and felt the bullet pierce my body. But he never pulled the trigger. Fortunately, I was able to catch up to Bigfoot and tackle him to the ground.

“Stay down or you will die,” I said.

Big Lou had made his way over to us by then.

He threw down his handcuffs and said, “Hook him up, Bounty Hunter.”

Bounty Hunter
…I liked the way that sounded.

I had to make the other inmates understand that Big Lou had a gun and he was aiming to kill. If I couldn’t convince them, they’d think I was a rat—and rats don’t last very long in prison.

Later that night, I pleaded my case to a group of Muslims who were very powerful and persuasive inside the joint. If I could convince them, I knew I’d be safe from retribution.

“They told Bigfoot that his momma was dead,” I told them. “He went crazy and took off running for the creek. I didn’t want to see Big Lou shoot him because his momma died.”

The Muslims seemed satisfied by the explanation. It was a great relief because I knew they’d spread the word I wasn’t a rat.

I became the great white hope of Huntsville after that. The prison guards often told me they’d never seen anything like how all of the inmates turned to me when they needed a helping hand or shoulder to cry on. I often think back on my days at Huntsville with nostalgia. Even though I was an inmate, I learned a lot of valuable life lessons. One of the most poignant was the friendship I formed with Whitaker and many of the other inmates. The men I met inside those cold stone prison walls were the strongest, most loyal men I have ever come across in my entire life. They were and still are my true brothers.

I got the education of a lifetime in Huntsville. It prepared me to confront any situation without having to go look up some answer in a textbook. It was a time in my life when every choice had a sudden and often horrible end result. Accepting the consequences of my actions taught me the true meaning of responsibility. The Texas Department of Corrections broke me down and built me back up again. They taught me what it truly means to be a man. I guess that’s why I began thinking about Huntsville as Beth and I walked the hallowed grounds of Mount Vernon that day.

The tour guide took me down to see the grave site where George and Martha Washington were laid to rest. He told me about the three
hundred slaves that lived on the property over the years. They had run the home, cooked, baked fresh bread, and worked the fields. He pointed to a hilly area of the property where all of the slaves were buried. When I asked why they were laid to rest there, the guide explained it was the resting place where each of the property’s slave owners always buried their slaves. I was surprised to see there were no grave markers. Just a hill.

“You might find it interesting to know they were all buried with their feet pointed toward the Potomac River.”

“Why is that?” I asked

“That’s how they wanted to be buried, so their spirits would head up the Potomac when they left their bodies, which is the opposite direction from where they arrived.”

I was choked up at the thought of all of those people who were buried under the ground that I stood on. While the others headed back to the car, I asked if I could stay a few more minutes. I wanted to pay homage to my brothers and sisters.

As I peered out over the rolling hill and toward the river, my mind wandered, conjuring up images of what this property had looked like in its day. I closed my eyes and could see all the families all together, children dancing around a large bonfire with their parents. I imagined George Washington having fun with his people and what it would have been like if I had lived back in that time.

The guide could see that I was visibly upset.

“Why are there no markers here for the dead?” I asked

He stammered over his words, saying, “We don’t really know who is buried where. We don’t have their names or know the location of each body. They are scattered all over this hill.”

His answer angered me. Did the great civil rights leaders of our time know about this? I wanted to shout over a loudspeaker, “Someone needs to get these graves marked!”

The Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association had purchased Mount Vernon from the Washington family in 1858. They opened the property
to the public in 1860. Since that time, nearly 80 million visitors have toured Washington’s home, and no one has thought to mark the graves of the slaves who worked there? I was fuming. The guide explained to me that Mount Vernon runs independent of the government, and no tax dollars are expended to support the five-hundred-acre estate, its educational programs or activities. I offered to pay for a marker myself. I told the guide money was of no concern. He reluctantly said he’d pass my offer along, though I could tell he didn’t hold out much hope.

I’ve fought for many things in my life, but never for anything more worthy than giving these slaves their due. Again, I told the guide that I really wanted to pay for a general grave marker. I needed to get in contact with the right people to make that happen. I felt an inexplicable connection to the hallowed grounds of Mount Vernon that day, so much so that I wish I could be buried right there too. It would be an honor for me to lie beside these unsung heroes of American history with no headstone.

I felt jubilant that day because I thought I’d be able to contribute something of significance to the heritage of our county, and that made me feel really good. I was happier than I had been in years. I can’t really give you an explanation on why, but there’s not a single day that goes by where I don’t think about those graves and how to get them properly marked.

In my life, I’ve always had the drive to help people I’ve met along the way who I believed had potential and were worthy of a second chance. I’ve used that intuition for years as both a bondsman and a bounty hunter. Bail bonds is a user-funded service. My clients have to give me some type of collateral to secure the money I put up for their release, to guarantee that they will appear in court. If they don’t, all of my assets, including my checking account, my income—everything—are on the line and can be subject to garnishment.

A bail bondsman is someone who acts as a surety and pledges money or property as bail for the appearance of a criminal defendant in court. Bond agents have an agreement with the local courts to post
an irrevocable bond, which will pay the court if any bonded defendant does not appear. The bondsman usually has an arrangement with an insurance company to draw on such security if the defendant skips.

A bondsman usually charges a fee of 10 percent of the total amount of the bail required to post a bond. It is a nonrefundable fee, and this is how I get paid for my services. So, if a defendant is on a ten-thousand-dollar bond, someone has to come up with one thousand dollars in cash before I will go down to the jail and post the bond to get that person out. For larger bail amounts, I can obtain security for the full value of the bond against assets the defendant or someone who is willing to help the defendant puts up for collateral. For example, I can accept the deed to a mortgage, pink slip to a boat or car or any other large item that will cover the full sum of the bond. As a bounty hunter, if the defendant fails to show up for a court date, I am allowed by law to bring that defendant to the court in order to recover the money paid out under the bond.

Since bail bondsmen are financially responsible for these fugitives, we’re the ones who go out to find the defendants so we can bring them back to court to face their charges—all of this at no cost to you, the taxpayer.