You Can Run but You Can't Hide (14 page)

your name, oh Lord. Amen.”

When I finished, there wasn’t a dry eye in the auditorium. Well,

except for Warden Horton’s, of course. He had a crazy look on his

face.

When I got back to my cell, I began gathering my things. I was

pretty sure my defiance had just bought me a one-way ticket to the

shitter. It wasn’t long before the lieutenant showed up at my cell.

“Consider it your lucky day, Chapman. Looks like the warden’s

gonna cut you some slack. You can start unpackin’.”

A minute later, Warden Horton showed up. He stood in the

doorway to my cell and told me, “Somewhere along the line, Chap-

man, we’ve had a failure to communicate. You just rocked this rock

we live on. I provided you with the prayer that’s supposed to be read

and you say some other crap you just make up. I’ve got mommas

that are still bawling out there. I even got lieutenants that were cry-

ing out there, Dog. I just can’t have that.”

I was worried the Mother’s Day massacre would ruin any

chance I had for my upcoming parole hearing. Ten months after

getting to Huntsville, I met with the parole board for the first time.

I was nervous as hell. The other inmates said it didn’t really mean

shit. All you had to do was sit there and try not to say anything stu-

pid. The hearing went even quicker than I expected. The board

glanced at my paperwork, then closed the file and said they were

giving me a “setoff” for ten months. This meant I would be given

another hearing at that time. Later, all the jail administrators said

what the board had done was the weirdest thing, because typically

they gave you a setoff for at least a year. It didn’t add up. They also

said they had never seen parole for first-degree murder raps in

Texas.

Ten months was a long time for me to be without a woman. I

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was completely desperate—and desperate times call for desperate

measures. It’s no secret that inmates masturbate all the time.

One day I got an idea. First, I went down to Supply and grabbed

an extra mattress, which I sliced an opening in. Next, I took some

calf liver from the guards’ kitchen and stuffed it into the hole in the

mattress. I strategically placed a poster of Raquel Welch next to the

hole. After me and Willie had our go-round, I charged the brothers

to take a turn on it.

It wasn’t just about the sexual desire. It was much more than

that. It was a longing for a woman’s affection. In prison, just a let-

ter from a woman could get you hard.

One day I met a guy named Lightning Eddie. His sister’s friend

started sending me letters, and she’d put a little spray of perfume in

the envelope. I couldn’t get enough of that scent. I taped the letter

to the grate of the fan I had and let the smell fill my cell. I’d sit back

on my bunk and take deep breaths. It immediately took me to an-

other place, and a warm feeling washed over me. I cried for what I

was missing. The perfume was like a powerful drug I couldn’t get

enough of.

Once Huntsville became desegregated, I was moved to what was

once the black cellblock. I shared my perfumed letters with the

brothers. They stopped by my cell and asked me, “Damn, boy!

What is that?”

I’d say, “Have a seat, stay a minute, and have a whiff. No jerking

off in here though!” On occasion, there could be four or five of us

packed into my cell, sitting in complete silence, lost in our own fan-

tasies.

When Christmas came, Boss Espinosa came down to my cell

and handed me a brown bag.

“Merry Christmas, Chapman,” he told me. He kept a hard look

on his face to let me know he was still the boss even though it was

a nice gesture. When he walked away, I opened the bag and found

a white handkerchief full of the scent of a woman’s perfume. That

hanky became my most valued possession. It offered me an escape

in my otherwise cold, lonely world of prison.

C h a p t e r T h i r t e e n

FREE AS A BIRD

One of the
biggest inmates in Huntsville was a black guy

everybody called Bigfoot. He was so big, he wore a size sixteen

shoe! When Whitaker and I checked him into Huntsville, there

weren’t any shoes big enough to fit his feet. That’s why we started

calling him Bigfoot.

One morning, Ronnie Coleman and I were on our way to the

prison barber shop when we spotted him in line with some other in-

mates from Jester Two waiting for mail call.

It was standard procedure for the guards to screen everyone’s

mail before they delivered it to inmates. If someone was getting bad

news, the guards would tell him to step out of line. They’d sur-

round him just in case he tried to run away. Inmates ran all the time

when they’d read their momma or daddy died or their wives were

leaving them. They always tried to make a break for the nearby

creek to try to escape.

Today was Bigfoot’s day for some bad news. They said, “All in-

mates with mothers still alive, take one step forward. Not so fast,

Bigfoot.” His mother had died. The guards told him to step out of

line, but they couldn’t get themselves into place before Bigfoot went

berserk. The guards were unnecessarily cruel. Boss Espinoza tried

to get him by the arm and drag him away, but Bigfoot tossed him to

the ground like he was a little kid. Before the other guards could get

him to the ground, Bigfoot was already in a full sprint. He was

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making a break for the creek. Lieutenant Hillegeist, who we called

Big Lou, drew his .38 and took aim at Bigfoot as he ran. We all

knew he had the right to shoot the escaping convict.

“Don’t, Big Lou!” I yelled, without even considering what I was

saying as I turned my back to him to make a run after Bigfoot. I

swear I heard the click his of gun being cocked and felt the bullet

pierce my body, but Big Lou never pulled the trigger.

Ronnie and I took off down the road. I was no track star, but

Ronnie was fast. I called his sprint the African strut. There was no

doubt in my mind that Big Lou would have shot to kill. Bigfoot had

already made it to the creek by the time Ronnie caught up to him.

Ronnie tackled Bigfoot from behind, but Bigfoot just popped right

back up. Before he could make another break for it though, I was

right on top of him. Ronnie pushed Bigfoot onto his stomach, while

I got Bigfoot’s arms behind his back. By that time, Big Lou had

found us.

He tossed his handcuffs down to me and said, “Hook him up,

bounty hunter.”

I slapped the cuffs on Bigfoot’s wrists. Ronnie and I tried to walk

him back toward the prison with dignity. After we handed Bigfoot

off to the guards, I looked over and saw Ronnie had a scared look

on his face.

“Man, I think we messed up,” he said. “They’re gonna kill us

back in the yard for what we did.”

Warden Horton must have felt the same way, because he told us

he had no choice but to transfer us to another farm right away. He

knew what was going to happen to us once we were put back in the

population. I pleaded for him to give us one night to straighten

everything out with the other inmates.

It took a lot of fast talking, but Horton agreed. I told Ronnie we

needed to make sure all the inmates understood that Big Lou had a

gun pointed at Bigfoot. We weren’t rats, we saved his life.

That night in the yard, all the inmates were staring us down.

Ronnie and I knew we had to act fast before anyone had the chance

to make a move on us. We approached a group of Muslims. As we

got closer, one of them said, “You two are as good as dead.”

Ronnie sat down at the far end of the table. “Fuck that, nigga.

Me and Dog saved Bigfoot’s ass. Big Lou could have put a bullet in

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his head, but Dog stopped him. And Big Lou could have killed Dog

right there. Bigfoot tried to make a run for it. That nigga should be

happy he ain’t dead right now.”

Another one of the guys looked over at me. “Is that how it all

went down, Dog?”

“They told Bigfoot that his momma was dead,” I said. “He went

crazy and took off running for the creek. I didn’t want to see Big

Lou have to shoot him because his momma died.”

The Muslims seemed satisfied by our explanation. It was a great

relief, because we knew they’d spread the word.

I found all sorts of gifts outside my cell the next morning. The

inmates left me lighters, cigarettes, coffee, and sandwiches as to-

kens of gratitude. I hid it all in my cell as quick as I could, because

I was worried Big Lou would write me up for contraband. He

pulled me aside but didn’t come down on me. He told me, “Well,

bounty hunter, looks like your bread is buttered.”

By leaving the gifts, the inmates let me know I had done the right

thing, and they also lifted my spirits at a time when I desperately

needed it. After that, all the inmates looked at me different than be-

fore. They appreciated what Ronnie and I did in saving Bigfoot. My

nickname became “Dog the Bounty Hunter.”

A year into my sentence, I had the privilege of cutting Head

Warden Jaka’s hair. During the haircut, he asked me about my pa-

role hearing. I told him about the setoff the board gave me. I also

told him the story of what happened the night of the shooting that

landed me in Huntsville.

I could tell Warden Jaka was paying extra-close attention as I

spoke.

The following day at count time, the guard yelled, “Ain’t no bar-

ber today! Everyone else on the line!”

Everyone started out for work. I remained in my cell. I didn’t

know why, but I had a feeling something bad was about to go down.

“Is there a problem, Boss?” I asked.

The guard didn’t say a word.

Once everyone else filed out, the goon squad came into my cell

wearing full body armor and holding shotguns. “The warden don’t

like being lied to. We’re taking you to the shitter.”

I kept my head down and quickly gathered my things.

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As I was leaving my cell, I looked over to where Boss Ironhorn

was standing and asked, “Do you think when I get out, Boss, I can

get my old job back?

“I can’t promise you anything. I’ll see what I can do, Chapman.”

Luckily, the guards came for me the next morning.

After hearing the story I told him that day, Warden Jaka thought

I had to be lying. He didn’t understand why I would be given five

years for murder when I was half a block away from the crime,

waiting in a car. Later on, I was told that the warden eventually

made a call to Sheriff Rufe Jordan, who explained what really went

down on that terrible night of the shooting.

Where mercy is shown, mercy is given.

Not long after, Big Lou got me out of my cell and told me,

“Chapman, your bread is buttered.” That’s it. Nothing else. One

day in December, Lieutenant Elliot came to me and said my parole

papers had come through. I was scheduled to be released February

6, 1979.

I was stunned. I was overcome with emotion. I only served eigh-

teen months of my five-year sentence. It was nothing short of a mir-

acle.

The board required that I present a parole plan to them before

setting me free. They wouldn’t release me until I had a permanent

address so they knew where to find me on the outside. I told the pa-

role board I was all set to go to my mom and dad’s, even though I

hadn’t secured those plans with my folks. I left home when I was fif-

teen years old, and I’ve never looked back. But now I was a grown

man with nowhere else to go. Much to my surprise, Flash said to

come home.

The men I met inside those prison walls of Huntsville were the

strongest, most loyal men I have come across in my entire life. They

were my brothers. Of course, there were parts of life in jail that

were a complete living hell. But all the time I spent with the other

inmates, the stories they told and the lessons they taught me, were

more important than anything I had learned before going in.

I got the education of a lifetime in Huntsville. It prepared me to

confront any situation without having to go look up some answer

in a textbook. All I had to do was think back to the times with Boss

Ironhorn, Bigfoot, Warden Curly Horton, and Whitaker. It was a

time when every choice had a sudden and often horrible end result.

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Accepting the consequences of my actions taught me the true

meaning of responsibility. The Texas Department of Corrections

broke me down and built me back up again. They taught me what it

means to truly be a man. To this day, when I am overwhelmed or

confused by all of the things going on in my life, I look back on my

time in Huntsville for answers and guidance.

I wore an ear-to-ear grin on my last day. I was getting my things