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Overview
Duane "Dog" Chapman entertains and inspires millions on Dog the Bounty Hunter, his #1-rated show on A&E--but there is more to his story. From troubled beginnings and tragedy to triumph and transformation, he reveals all for the first time in this no-holds-barred memoir.
Dog spent the first twenty-three years of his life on the wrong side of the law. In You Can Run but You Can't Hide, he offers an inside look at his days as a gang member; his dark years of addiction and abuse; and how serving eighteen months in prison for a murder he didn't commit helped him recommit to his faith. He also shares stories of some of his most dangerous bounty hunts--including his capture of Max Factor heir and convicted rapist Andrew Luster, which made international headlines.
In You Can Run but You Can't Hide, Dog recounts his incredible story, chronicling his journey from his onetime criminal past to the guiding faith that has led him to become one of the most successful bounty hunters in American history. Against all odds, Dog turned his life around and went from ex-con to American icon in the process. This is his story.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781401389536 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Hachette Books |
| Publication date: | 08/07/2007 |
| Sold by: | Hachette Digital, Inc. |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 336 |
| File size: | 641 KB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN'T HIDE
By Duane Chapman
Hyperion
Copyright © 2007 Duane ChapmanAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4013-0368-6
Chapter One
I AM DOG
My name is Duane Lee Chapman. My friends call me Dog-Dog the Bounty Hunter. For more than twenty-seven years, I have made a living hunting down more than seven thousand fugitives. I wear that honor as proudly as my shiny silver fugitive-recovery badge that hangs around my neck.
In the old days, there weren't enough lawmen for all the criminals on the loose, so sheriffs posted hefty rewards to capture crooks on the run. Legends of the Wild West, like Wild Bill Hickok, Wyatt Earp, and Billy the Kid, all made their living hunting bounties. Now, I might not be as famous as some of those guys, but I am the greatest bounty hunter who ever lived.
A lot of people think of me as a vigilante. It's true, my recovery tactics are far from conventional, but I rarely fail at finding my man. For me, failure has never been an option. To get attention or be noticed in this world, and believed, loved, and trusted, you had better be extraordinary, especially nowadays. In my life, extraordinary stuff happens all the time.
Bounty hunting is not a game. It's definitely not for the meek or faint of heart. I don't do it to prove I'm a tough bastard or smarter than some other guy. I do it because I have been there. I have been the bad guy. I know firsthand how messed up the system can be. Despite it all, I still believe in truth and justice.
To be certain, bounty hunting isn't your average nine-to-five job. But then, I'm not your average guy. I have had guns pointed in my face so many times I've lost count. I've survived having the trigger pulled more than once or twice. I have been stabbed, scratched, beaten up, and hit with every imaginable (and unimaginable) weapon of choice-chains, boards, tire irons, golf clubs, and crowbars. I've been tossed through windows, pushed through walls, and shoved through doors. Does that make me a tough guy? You bet your ass.
I was born in Denver on February 2, 1953. My parents were Wesley and Barbara Chapman. Mom was half-Chiricahua Apache, which gave her beautiful thick, long, dark hair and a medium skin tone. Her eyes were an expressive chocolate brown that spoke from a stare without ever having to utter a single word. She had a way of looking into you, not just at you. Mom taught me to see people for who they are, not for the color of their skin, their race, or religion. She was a devout Christian who lived her life according to God's word. She instilled those same beliefs in me from the day I was born.
I have always been proud of my Indian heritage. I never once gave a second thought to my mixed background or to how others might see me as being a little different. I've always had a pretty distinguishable look. Hell, it makes me easy to identify in a lineup.
My dad, Wesley, also known as "Flash," had dirty-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. I am built just like him. He wasn't particularly large, though he was remarkably strong and fit. He had the most gigantic hands I ever saw. Dad was a navy welder, serving for many years. Flash earned his nickname boxing welterweight, because he moved with great speed and finesse. His boxing career was rather illustrious: He never lost a fight. Flash was a tough son of a gun-a real scrapper.
From the outside looking in, my childhood was pretty normal. Mom and Dad lived a decent middleclass life in Denver, Colorado. My two sisters, Jolene and Paula, and my younger brother, Mike, and I were not very close growing up. We all played together and probably watched too much of my favorite television programs, like The Lone Ranger, Sky King, and The Green Hornet.
Every summer, I looked forward to joining my mom on her annual trip from Denver to Farmington, New Mexico, down to Sister Jensen's Mission. Even though Sister Jensen's congregation was primarily made up of Navajo from the local reservation, they all loved to hear Mom spread the word of God. She wasn't an ordained preacher, but she was mighty and powerful in her love of the Lord and her unshakable faith. Until the age of twelve, I tagged along as her helper, passing out hymn sheets and collecting tithes.
One of the first life lessons I remember Mom teaching me was that God sees all of us as His children, which makes us all brothers and sisters. Listening to Mom preach gave me a will and inspiration to live the way God intended us to. I wanted to grow up to be just like her-to live a righteous, good, honorable, God-fearing life.
As a young boy, I never knew that other kids didn't get hit by their dads. I thought it was a rite of passage to have my father knock me around. I simply didn't know anything different. I can't recall any long stretch of time in my young life when my dad didn't hit me. He used a special paddle he'd made from some old flooring. Flash whacked me on the back of my legs and bare ass until I was black and blue and so sore I couldn't take another hit. To this day, if I get a sunburn anywhere on my body, it reminds me of my childhood and Flash's beatings. Just thinking of the abuse I endured can make me cry.
As a way to toughen me up, Flash began to teach me the basics of boxing. Although he never hit above the shoulders, I wasn't allowed to show any emotion after he threw a punch. A jab to the ribs, a left hook to the body-whatever came at me, I was expected to take it like a man. But I wasn't a man. I was a young boy looking for love and approval from my father. I was desperate for his affection, so I ignored the pain. Sometimes I even thanked him for it, as if I deserved what he doled out.
Because of my religious upbringing, I thought my dad was punishing me for being a terrible sinner. Until very recently, I never understood that none of his abuse was my fault. I just thought that was how all dads treated their sons, and yet I swore that I would never beat my kids. I wanted the Chapman family abuse cycle to die with Flash.
I was eleven years old when I first saw the movie The Yearling. I was very confused by the father's reaction to his son when he told him he'd done something bad. The young boy's father hugged his son and told him he loved him for being so honest. If I went to Flash to confess I'd messed up, all I got was the paddle or the back side of his very large hand against my cheek. I wanted the father from The Yearling, so the next time I screwed up, I told my dad. Instead of praising me, Flash hit me harder than ever. I was so upset I ran away from home. I rode my bicycle all the way to Fort Morgan, fifty-eight miles from our house in Denver. I would have gone farther, but I was too hungry and tired. I called my mom's dad, Grandpa Mike, to come get me. I never told him why I ran away. If I ratted on Flash, Grandpa would have killed him.
On the weekends when I wasn't at church with Mom, Flash and Grandpa Mike taught me how to hunt and fish. Living in Colorado gave them a lot of options to show me the ropes. I was pretty good in the woods. I loved to camp out, make meals over an open fire, and listen to their old hunting stories.
Flash made a sport out of finding new and undiscovered spots to hunt. He always made me feel like we were great explorers on a mission, going places, discovering secret locations no one else knew about. It was fun for a little kid. Flash was a survivalist. His navy training taught him how to make any situation work. His instincts in the great outdoors were the finest any son could ask for when learning to hunt. He showed me how to track everything from deer to fox, pheasants to ducks.
Flash and Grandpa Mike always made us hike to our locations. They were afraid we might get shot by some drunken hunters if we rode on horseback. We never took dogs. I was the dog. It was my job to figure our course.
I spent the first twenty-three years of my life on the wrong side of the law. For most of my childhood, I ran with gangs and bikers. The only thing I knew about the law was a thousand ways to break it. I got pretty good at that. It took a murder-one conviction to make me decide to change my life from committing crime to fighting it. It might seem strange that a man with my criminal past is so passionately concerned with what happens to the victims of crime. I have been misjudged, misinterpreted, and misunderstood for most of my life. I have spent the last twenty-seven years trying to be one of the good guys. I love God, my wife, my children, and my career. In spite of those efforts to be seen as a moral man of virtue, I am still viewed as an ex-con, a criminal, a killer. I am many things, including those just mentioned. Put it all together and you will see: I am Dog.
Chapter Two
SEVENTH-GRADE BEATDOWN
I've always identified myself as being part Indian, but the truth is, I'm not really sure about my heritage. Whenever I pushed the issue, my mom and dad skirted it, as if to say they didn't really want me to know the truth about who my real father might be. I'm not saying Flash wasn't my biological dad; he might have been. I think a lot of kids fantasize that their dad is really someone else, especially kids who grow up in abusive homes, like I did.
Here's what I know for certain: I have a natural affinity for Indian culture, customs, music, and designs. I can spot an Apache or Chiricahua woven rug a mile away. A few years back, I was in a shop in San Diego talking to four or five elderly Indian women. They asked if I had Native American in my blood.
"No. I've got Indian in my blood." I was emphatic.
"Us too!" They all let out a laugh. We'd been talking for a few minutes, when one of the oldest women turned to me and said, "If I believed in reincarnation, there's old stories about you, boy."
I wanted to tell her what she already knew. Before I could say anything, she placed her forefinger up to her lips as if to say, "Do not speak."
When I played cowboys and Indians with the other kids in the neighborhood, I never wanted to be a cowboy. My dad bought me a Western hat and six-guns to wear in a holster, but I only wanted a feather in my hair. I wasn't no damn cowboy. No way! I was an Indian. I used to tell my buddies, "No bullet could ever hurt me, because I am on a mission." They'd just laugh and pull the trigger on their toy pistols.
My great-grandmother's maiden name was Cochise. When I was a boy, she spent hours telling me stories of a courageous Indian leader named Cochise. He was born in Arizona and led the Chiricahua band of the Apache tribe during a very violent time in American history. Cochise was five feet nine inches tall and weighed 170 pounds, a broad-shouldered, powerfully built man who carried himself with dignity. He was gentle in nature but was capable of extreme cruelty in warfare. He was a born survivor who was intelligent and sensitive. He was a peaceful man who believed in justice and the law.
His troubles began when the United States government was trying to take control of what we now know as Arizona and New Mexico, territory that at the time, 1861, belonged to his tribe. Cochise was falsely imprisoned on charges of kidnapping a white child. He beat the charges and settled on his reservation, where he died a peaceful death in 1874.
Now, I know what you're thinking. It sounds familiar, right?
I've always felt connected to Cochise in ways I cannot explain. I have visions of his life as if it were my own. To this day, when there is a full moon, I will walk outside and give praise to the Lord. Sometimes I begin to chant in an ancient tribal way. No one ever taught it to me. I just knew. Once an Indian chief told me I was giving praise to the Great Spirit. He kept saying, "You're the one!" I felt like the guy from The Matrix, a man chosen to lead millions.
When I was a kid, I got picked on a lot because my mother was part Apache. Where I grew up, being a half-white boy who always carried a Bible made me a minority, but being part Indian made me a target. From my first week in the seventh grade, I can't remember a single day I didn't hear other kids call me names like "half-breed," "dirty redskin boy," and "Injun." Listening to those kids made my skin crawl. A mighty rush of blood consumed every inch of my body each time those kids taunted or teased me. Sometimes I felt angry, other times ashamed. I knew I didn't have anything to feel bad about, but it wasn't easy to take.
By the seventh grade, I was fighting the Latinos for my pride on a pretty regular basis. I could always sense when they were behind me. There were five older kids who acted more like men than boys. There was no mistaking the sound of their leather boots clicking on the sidewalk. The gang leader was named Beau Rodriguez. He was the toughest kid at school. That's a pretty big statement, because Rishel Junior High was filled with punks and badasses, each trying to prove he was the toughest.
One day, on my way to school, I found myself surrounded by Beau and his gang. I was walking through a deserted parking lot when the guys snuck up from behind. They were all carrying rubber hoses. I imagined I was in for a real beating, because it was five against one.
Flash had been teaching me how to fight. He and I practiced boxing a couple of days a week. I was pretty good. I would have taken on any of these guys one at a time and probably beat him. I knew I didn't have a prayer of surviving against all five. The only solution I could think of was God.
I pulled my Bible from the inside pocket of my coat, held it up, and said, "You are sinners. The Lord doesn't want you to do this. The Bible says to be kind to your fellow man!"
Beau and the boys started laughing their asses off. I thought I was off the hook until Beau took his hose and used it like a whip to send my Bible flying across the parking lot. These boys weren't messing around. I crouched down, clutched my fingers together behind my neck, and waited for the brutal beating to end. When they stopped, I pulled my bloody, torn body across the parking lot toward my Bible for whatever protection it might still offer.
My mother was a deeply religious woman who always told me the Lord would protect me. My attempt to move signaled Beau and his gang to start the whooping all over again, only this time they hit me harder.
My will was stronger than theirs. I kept crawling, scratching my nails against the pavement. One of the boys noticed that my Bible was just outside my reach. He ran over, grabbed it, and ripped my precious book in half, tossing one part across the parking lot and the other at my feet.
I thought about God as I lay on the dirty asphalt that morning. Beau and his boys were through with me, but I wasn't done with them. I lost my will to love and forgive that day. I was mad as hell. Where was God? Why didn't He protect me?
I had taken plenty of beatings from Flash. I was used to taking his punches. Somehow this felt different. It made me angry and vengeful.
I wanted to run after those boys and clobber each one. I wanted to get up and hurt those bastards, but my body couldn't move. I watched them walk away, taking pleasure and pride in the damage they had done. My wounds were deep, far beyond the cuts and bruises I suffered at their hands. My heart hardened that day. I remember it well, because it took many years to learn to open it back up. I cried for hours. I was hurt in every way.
By midafternoon, I finally realized I could cry no more. I didn't want to shed another tear for Beau Rodriguez, for hatred, for my heritage, or my wounded pride. I could barely make it to my feet, let alone take the long walk to school. I tried to hold back my tears, but they kept coming, like a spout that couldn't be turned off.
When I got to school, I went straight to the vice principal's office. I sat there, recounting the details of what happened in the parking lot. My nose was bleeding, my clothes were ripped, and I had deep cuts and bruises from head to toe. He listened silently. He didn't respond to anything I was saying.
He looked at me as if I were an alien who had just landed from another planet. He didn't believe a single word of my story. In fact, he was completely dismissive. My already growing anger was now a volcano on the verge of eruption. I may not have been a model student; I surely know I wasn't an angel. But his denial of my beating was as abusive as the event itself. My world was instantly turned upside down. For the first time in my life, an adult was accusing me of being a liar. The vice principal excused me and sent me off to class.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN'T HIDE by Duane Chapman Copyright © 2007 by Duane Chapman. Excerpted by permission.
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