Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given - Duane Dog Chapman [88]
Every now and again, I caught a glimpse of Beth, who was standing next to the patrol car and had balanced her flashlight in her cleavage, shining the bright light right in his eyes. “You’re a punk-ass jerk!” she’d hiss, and then whenever the cops strolled by, she’d quickly turn her flashlight in the opposite direction, and look around, whistling. When they’d turn around again, she’d shine that light right back in his face. Eventually, an officer caught her in the act.
“Ma’am,” he said. “You have your light in the prisoner’s eyes. Would you kindly turn it off?”
Beth acted as though she didn’t realize what she had been doing. “Oh really?” she asked innocently. She removed the flashlight and began spinning it like a baton between her fingers.
The prisoner kept yelling at Beth, “At least Dog didn’t get me! Ha ha!”
“Whatever,” Beth fired back. “Dog got you. He’s just not taking you in. Either way you’re going to jail right now in care of the Dog—signed, sealed, and delivered!”
After that capture, I went through about a year or so of guys on the run getting caught by the cops and telling them, “Thank God you got me, because I didn’t want to get brought in by Dog.” For whatever reason, they feared being caught by me more than the police. I never understood it because I’m the guy who will buy you a Coke, give you a smoke, and let you call your old lady or momma before taking you in. Their logic never made any sense to me.
A lot of criminals like to brag they’re the one that got away from the Dog. Let me tell you something about that. No one gets away from me. Not now—not ever. In an ironic twist, a few years ago my brother Mike was in jail. He called to tell me about a guy I put in the joint who loaned him a couple of cigarettes.
“Is he mad at you because I popped him?” I asked.
Mike quickly shot back, “No! He really likes me. And everyone in here loves this guy.”
“Why is that?” I was curious to know the reason.
“Because you put him in here,” Mike answered. “The guys you capture, Dog, they’re the coolest cats in jail. They’ve got bragging rights no one else has. It took the Dog to capture and put him in this hellhole and not some cop.”
That was the first time it had ever occurred to me that it was prestigious to be caught by the Dog.
Our conversation got me thinking about what it would be like if I someday ran for sheriff. I’d like to find some small town that has criminals running amok. I’d be just like Sheriff Buford Pusser in Walking Tall, doing whatever was needed to whip that town back into shape. I’d be incorruptible and intolerant of crime, while cleaning up the streets and making the town a safer place to live.
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,