Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given - Duane Dog Chapman [89]
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.