You Can Run but You Can't Hide (10 page)

me in jail, but I was certain I wanted nothing to do with whatever

he had to say. I was still angry about the whole situation. I didn’t do

anything wrong. I wasn’t supposed to be in jail.

The Reverend stood outside my cell and began to talk.

“Dog, do you mind if I call you Dog?” He looked scared as hell.

“LaFonda tells me you were once a spiritual man. She said you

have a strong belief in the Lord. I’m here today to talk to you about

that.”

I stared him down. I could feel the blood rush to my face.

“Move along, Reverend. I ain’t got nothing to say to you.” I

spoke in a soft, low growl.

“Now listen, Dog. I know you’re angry. God knows you’re a

good man. A decent man. You’re in a bad situation here.”

I slowly moved my face toward his.

“What do you know about my situation, Reverend? You don’t

know nothing.” I held on to the cell bars as tight as I could. My

knuckles turned white from the strength of my grip.

“Dog. You of all people should know that God will show you

the way. He will lead you from this dark place into the light. You

have to trust the Lord. Put your life in His hands.”

I was pissed. I didn’t want to hear about God or His almighty

plan. All I wanted to hear was that I made bail and was a free man.

“Unless you’re here to post bail, Reverend, I suggest you get out

of here. I ain’t interested in anything you have to say. I’ll use your

Bible for rolling papers.”

The preacher stood motionless, unfazed by my anger. Hell, I

was locked up behind bars. What was I going to do? I couldn’t

56

Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

touch the guy, and he knew it. Still, his willingness to take my

mouth was surprising.

“If you want the Lord’s help, Duane, you have to ask for it. If

you want your bail reduced, then ask God for a reduction in bail.

Ask and ye shall receive.”

He spoke with such confidence and assurance. I didn’t care. I

walked to the back of my tiny cell and never turned around until

I heard the Reverend slowly walk away.

Fuck him,
I thought.
Who does he think he is, coming in here,

telling me about the ways of the Lord?
I walked in small circles,

thinking about what he had said. He didn’t know me. He didn’t

know dick about my life. If he did, he surely wouldn’t be wasting

his time on a guy like me.

Life in jail wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I had been ar-

rested many times before, so I kind of knew what to expect. I was

able to sneak in some drugs, mostly pot, which helped calm me down

and pass the time. It was easy to smuggle in the drugs. I lowered a

string from the window of my third-floor cell, and one of my Disci-

ple brothers always hooked me up. Usually it was Little Earl, who

tied a bag of weed or Fiorenal to the string so I could pull it back up.

To be perfectly honest, I could have gone down to get the stuff

myself. I discovered that previous inmates had tried to saw through

the bars on the window. It took me a few days, but I finished the job

using a sharpened metal lid from a jar. I’d sneak out at night by

shimmying down a drainpipe. Little Earl was always there. We’d

head over to the local bowling alley to grill up a couple of cheese-

burgers. It never once occurred to me to run. Where would I go?

Besides, if I ran, I would have to give up LaFonda and the boys.

I wasn’t willing to sacrifice my family for my freedom. Those kids

meant the world to me. They needed their dad. I wanted to be

around to see them do all that kid stuff. I wasn’t going to do any-

thing stupid, like bust out of jail.

Sheriff Rufe Jordan didn’t see it quite the same way as I did.

“What the hell are you doing, Dog?” the sheriff asked, as I

swung my legs through the window leading back into my cell.

I was speechless.

The sheriff looked completely shocked. I’m guessing it was a

first for him to actually have an inmate break
in
to jail! He never

said another word about it.

M u r d e r O n e

57

Despite my consistent dismissals, the reverend kept coming to

visit, trying to lead me back to the Lord. LaFonda even brought my

Bible, in the hope that I would find God’s love and light. It had been

years since I’d read my Bible. It took me a few days before I cracked

it open. But as I began to read, I kept denying the reasons why.

I read it because I was bored. Alone. Sad. Angry. Frustrated.

That’s what I kept telling myself. But looking back, it was because

of so much more. Reading the Bible brought back happy memories

from years ago. It reminded me of when I was a boy, going with

Mom to Sister Jensen’s mission and to church with her on Sundays.

Slowly I began to realize the words were uplifting and healing. I

began reflecting on my life. I knew I had made some bad choices

along the way, but reading the Bible in jail helped me see that I had

probably done more damage than good in my first nineteen years.

That wasn’t how I wanted people to think of me.

I am a proud man. I had a set of values that guided me. I

thought of myself as a moral criminal. Yes, I stole, but that didn’t

make me a killer. I fought, but I was not a violent man by nature. I

sold drugs and partied. I could chalk that up to being young and

stupid. But deep down, I wasn’t an asshole. That I was sure of. I

hoped it wasn’t too late to change my life. In my heart, I wanted to

be good. I wanted to be on the straight and narrow. I didn’t want to

waste my life, spending the rest of my days and nights as a hoodlum

biker.

So, for the first time since I was a young boy, I began to pray. I

asked the Lord for help. I begged for His forgiveness and guidance.

I took the reverend’s advice and asked God to reduce my bail.

I pleaded with God to show me the righteous path. I promised I

wouldn’t run around with the Disciples or cheat on my wife. I told

the Lord I would go straight, get a job, and make money on the up

and up. I even told the Lord that if He helped me, I would sell my

beloved bike. That might be the hardest promise I ever made.

The proof would be at the hearing, which was set forty-eight

hours after I began to pray. There was no way I could come up with

fifty grand.

“All right, God. If You’re really out there, show me You have

heard my prayers. I am being sincere, Lord. Please, God. Help me.

Let Thy will be done.”

Two days later I appeared in front of Judge McIllheney.

58

Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

“Bail is set at five thousand dollars.”

I threw my head back in utter shock.

“Shit.” That was all I could say.

Damn, I was gonna miss that bike.

When you make a promise to the Lord, you’d best keep it.

As soon as I could, I began to fulfill all the promises I made to

God in jail. He showed me He is a man of His word. Now I had to

be a man of mine. First chance I had, I paid a visit to my old friend

Dale from Bison, who was now selling Kirby vacuums.

“Dale, I need a job. You gotta help me.” I was practically begging.

He said, “OK, Dog, I’ll put you back on . . . but you can’t bring

your troubles here, friend.”

Next, I went to see Reverend Middaugh. I wanted to thank him

for his guidance and tell him that he was right. I asked, and God

provided. I wanted to share my rediscovered belief in God. The rev-

erend offered me a job as the church janitor. He even trusted me

with a key to the church. That man was my friend.

He said, “. . . and, on Sundays, you can help with collections.” I

smiled, knowing no one would let Dog pass by without putting

money down. The Reverend told me tithing went up significantly in

the weeks I passed the collection plate. He was a smart dude. I had

to give him credit for seeing that opportunity.

Finally, I sold my Harley to a friend for three thousand dollars. It

almost paid for my fast-growing legal fees. I loved that Harley Pan-

head. It was by far the fastest and best-looking motorcycle in Texas,

if not the world. For years, my entire identity had been being a biker.

Without a bike, who would I be?

I spent most of the year waiting to go to trial. I was trying to make

up for all the years I’d wasted breaking the law and ignoring God. I

committed myself to seeing the error of my ways. I went to church as

often as I could. LaFonda and I went every Sunday. Duane Lee sat on

my lap as we raised our spirit to God. In addition, I often found my-

self alone in church, praying for hope and guidance. I wasn’t sure

what the future held, but I was confident the Lord had a plan.

I was selling a lot of vacuums, making more money than ever.

After one especially good day, I decided to go out and buy Reverend

Middaugh a new suit to show my appreciation for all he had done.

He thanked me, though his mood quickly shifted from grateful to

serious.

M u r d e r O n e

59

“Duane, you’ve made wonderful strides in your life. I am so

proud of you, son. Have you given any thought about what you

want to do with your life when all of this is behind you?”

I wasn’t sure how long a sentence I would receive. I was told I

could serve anywhere from five to ninety-nine years in prison. The

trial was nearing. I had spent the past year and a half doing nothing

but thinking about my future. The Sunday before I gave the reverend

his suit, I went to Brother Love of the First Assembly of God in Lub-

bock to preach to his congregation and tell them my story of re-

demption. I stood in the back, still feeling like a sinner in my leather

biker clothes and long hippie hair. I noticed a guy who looked a lot

like me go forward during the altar call. Eight people, including a

grandmotherly woman with silvery white hair, were praying over this

man. He was on his knees, begging Jesus to forgive him. He wept as

he asked for God’s love. I had never seen anything like it. A tough

biker just like me, brought to his knees!

I was next in line. I got a little nervous, wondering if I would

have the same reaction. The old lady placed her hand on top of my

head. She leaped back as if the contact had caused some type of

electric shock.

“This young man will lead millions of children to the Lord. Peo-

ple are going to love you.” The old woman made her proclamation

for several minutes, looking at me with such conviction. She stood

firm in her prediction that I was blessed by the touch of the Lord.

Finally she asked, “What’s your name, son?”

“You can call me Dog. I am here to tell my life story tonight.” I

rose to my feet.

“I’m right! Praise Jesus. More confirmation that He truly walks

with each of us!”

The preacher came forward, handed me the mike, and said,

“Speak now.”

I spoke of my jaded history, my upcoming murder trial, and how

the Lord showed me the way. I was filled with God’s love. I told the

story of Jonah and the whale. I said I felt like I had been in the belly

of that whale.

“If anyone here has lost a loved one or you need me, come for-

ward.” The words spilled from my mouth, but they came from God’s

love in my heart. This was the first time I had ever done something

like this, and I thought it would be a short altar call, but the entire

60

Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

congregation came up. I had no idea how talking about my life and

mistakes could help others. Afterward, I was physically exhausted.

My clothes were drenched in sweat from my energetic testifying.

So, when Reverend Middaugh asked me about my future, I turned

to him and said, “I think God wants me to preach His word.”

The reverend looked as surprised to hear my proclamation as I

was to make it. Previously, if someone had told me I would want to

become one of God’s great messengers, I would have lit another

joint, taken a big long drag, and laughed in his face. But I truly be-

lieved this was my calling.

Unfortunately, I was the only one who heard God’s call. When

I pursued my dream, the elders at the Assembly of God Church

turned me down. After all, I was still an accused murderer. I was de-

stroyed by their rejection. I thought they were all a bunch of hyp-

ocrites, because I believed sinners belonged in church. They didn’t

see it that way.

My trial began a few weeks later. Despite the certainty that I

was going to prison, I was determined to stay on my path. I thought

I had a good chance of beating the rap. My lawyer, Bill Kolius,

called several witnesses, including Reverend Middaugh, Ruben, and

Cheryl. Donny’s lawyer wouldn’t let him testify for me, saying it

would hurt his own case.

My lawyer also called a famous lawyer by the name of Richard

“Racehorse” Haynes, who testified on my behalf. He made a name

for himself by orchestrating dramatic courtroom scenes where he

created doubt in an otherwise certain jury. In one famous case, he