Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given - Duane Dog Chapman [18]
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