Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given - Duane Dog Chapman [20]
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.
Bondsmen have traditionally been given a bad rap because of their image as rough-and-tumble characters, perceived to be almost as crooked as the guys they’re bailing out of jail. But as the profession grew, it became more regulated, which made bondsmen more respected and reputable.
Several years ago, when I was writing bonds in Denver, I wrote one for Calvin Pope, the president of the Rollin’ 30 Crips. The Crips are one of the largest and most violent associations of street gangs in the United States, with an estimated 30,000 to 35,000 members. They are known to be involved in murders, robberies, and drug dealing, among many other criminal pursuits.
I had caught Calvin’s daddy and another one of his relatives, so I knew his family pretty well. Calvin had sixteen warrants and needed sixteen separate bonds. His sister, Lil, had originally contacted Beth to put up the bonds for him, but she was too afraid to write that many. So we ended up splitting them between the two of us. Calvin was often called the “king of the road” because he didn’t give a damn about the law. The first time I went down to the station to write a bond for Calvin, he said to me, “I thought you were black on the phone.”
“I ain’t black, but I am the Dog.” Somehow I thought that would matter to him more than the color of my skin.
Calvin was worried that the judge was going to sock it to him. I told him he had nothing to be concerned about.
“You’re young, Calvin. As long as you get a reputable job, I think you’ll be all right.”
The case was going in front of Judge Marcucci, who hated every bondsman in the business, except, perhaps Beth. I think he liked her low-cut blouses and Italian moxie. They used to run into each other at volleyball games where his daughter and Beth’s niece, Jacqueline, played against each other for their respective teams. None of the other bondsmen in Denver had that kind of social connection with the judge. For the most part though, other than Beth, he never gave any of us enough time to properly plead a case for our clients.
“Why are you here today, Chapman?” Judge Marcucci asked.
“I’m here to support my client, Judge.”
“You know he’s got to show up fifteen more times this month, right?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I’m aware of that. Do you think you could put all of those warrants into one bond?”
“No.” He didn’t even have to think about his answer.
The judge knew it wouldn’t be easy getting a guy like Calvin Pope into court fifteen more times, so it was a setup for disaster.
“Mr. Chapman, how do you propose you’re going to get Mr. Pope here for his next appearances?”
“I’m going to call him, Your Honor.”
“Oh, is that right?” he said with more than a touch of sarcasm.
“Your Honor, I am going to call him on his pager. Would you like the number?”
“Yes, I would. For the court, we most certainly would!” Remember, I was promising the judge the phone number for the president of the Crips.
Our little cat-and-mouse