You Can Run but You Can't Hide (45 page)

able. My face had been plastered all over the news for weeks. A cou-

ple of American kids spotted us at a fast food restaurant.

“Aren’t you Dog the Bounty Hunter?”

I gave them a blank, cold, death-inducing stare.
“Mi llamo es

Martinez.”

We headed to the airport the following morning. The date was

July 1, 2003. Jorge paid cash for our tickets. He didn’t want any

trace or trail that we were on the move. I was certain we were

screwed if the authorities figured out we left Puerto Vallarta. We

went through airport security.

“Passport, please.” The security guard demanded I hand over

my passport. I was nervous as hell. I barely gave him a second to

read before grabbing it and walking on through. Tim did the

same thing. Leland was worried about something happening at

the airport all morning, because he hid every article written about

us in the bottom of his suitcase. If they checked his suitcase,

they’d know exactly who we were. In preparation that something

might go terribly wrong, he took a pair of his shorts and doused

them with water. He laid the wet shorts on top of the things in his

suitcase. If someone opened it, the first thing they’d find would

be a pair of wet, soiled boxer shorts. Sure enough, Leland got

picked out of the line for a full security search. When the guard

opened his suitcase, he was disgusted by the wet shorts. He

zipped the case back up as he motioned Leland to go on through.

That’s my boy!

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279

We made the short flight to Tijuana. Jorge had arranged a van

to meet us curbside. We piled in as fast as we could. A few minutes

into the trip, the driver told Jorge he didn’t have any identification.

I thought this had to be a setup.

“Jorge! What the hell? What’s going on?” We had made it

through two airports and four checkpoints. We were a couple of

miles from the American border. We’d never get through border pa-

trol without the driver presenting ID. We couldn’t go back. Not

now. We were so close. But going forward would mean going back.

We were stumped.

“What are we going to do?” I looked at Jorge with puppy dog

eyes.

Leland was seated in the back of the van. While Jorge and I tried

to figure out a plan, Leland noticed a Mexican checkpoint soldier

chasing us down, waving with one hand and pointing his rifle at the

car with the other.

“Gun it!” I yelled at the driver to crash the gate and get us to

American soil.

Just as we approached the American checkpoint, the driver

pulled down the visor above his head. “Here it is! I have my pa-

pers!” I wanted to scream at him, but I was too eager to get to the

other side of that gate.

I could see the Mexican soldier in the distance behind us, still

waving. Right in front of us was a large official-looking white man

in a uniform instructing the van to pull over.

The officer opened the van’s side door, pointed directly at me,

and said, “You. Come with me.” I couldn’t believe this. We were so

close. This time I would fight to the end. I wasn’t going back to jail.

No way. I couldn’t shoot the guy—I didn’t have a gun—but I could

beat his ass to death. I took two steps forward.

“Dog Chapman?”

I didn’t want to answer.

“Welcome home. We’ve been waiting for you. I’m with Home-

land Security. You are safe. You’re free.”

I fell to my knees. I didn’t realize we had crossed the border. I

looked up and saw the largest, most beautiful American flag waving

above me. I cannot put words to how I felt in that moment. Free,

blessed, safe, loved, relieved, lucky. None of those words combined

or alone accurately describe that feeling. I kissed the ground.

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

“Oh, my God. Sweet Jesus. I’m home. Thank you, Lord.” We all

wept tears of joy.

The driver took us to a nearby Budget Rental Car at the San

Diego airport.

The woman behind the counter immediately recognized me.

“Dog?” I thought I knew her from Tony Robbins.

“You’re in
People
magazine, sweetie.”

I couldn’t believe it. She gave me the nicest, newest car on the lot.

The journey had taken a toll on all of us, but Jorge seemed espe-

cially drained from the pressure. He just wanted to go home. Tim,

Leland, and I got into the car and raced up the I-5 freeway toward

L.A., where our loved ones were waiting for us. We were doing at

least a hundred miles an hour to make the two-hour trip as fast as

we could. Somewhere in Orange County, about halfway there, I saw

flashing red lights in my rearview mirror. I didn’t want to stop. All I

could think of was getting to Beth. The cop pulled up alongside the

car and motioned for me to pull over.

I pulled off the highway onto the median. The cop was pissed. I

could tell by the way he approached the car he didn’t appreciate our

short-lived chase. I opened the car door and got out. I was wearing

a suede poncho someone gave me on the beach in Puerto Vallarta,

my dark glasses, jeans, boots, and a leather cowboy hat. I looked

like a mix of Zorro and Pancho Villa!

“Stop right there. Fucking freeze! First, you’re smoking. Second-

hand smoke is known to kill, so now, you’ve already tried to kill

me.” The cop took a minute to look me over. The he squinted and

said, “Dog?” The cop hugged me on the spot. The boys got out of

the car. He hugged them, too. He was so excited to see us. The re-

action we were getting from people was startling. We had no idea

how big a story this had become.

“Do you want an escort?” By now, two other California High-

way Patrolmen had pulled up. I thought an escort would bring too

much attention to the fact we were home. I wanted the chance to

see Beth before the media got ahold of us.

“Thanks guys, but if it’s all the same, I think we’ll take a pass on

the escort.”

The cop radioed ahead to be on the lookout for our car. “Under

no circumstances are you to pull this man over.”

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281

Roger that.

I pulled up in front of the Le Parc Hotel in West Hollywood.

Beth and I had used that hotel as our headquarters for most of the

hunt for Luster. I knew she’d know to meet me there when I called.

The entire hotel staff stood with Beth and Tim’s wife, Davina, wait-

ing to welcome us home. Leland’s wife, Maui, stayed in Hawaii.

Beth, my honey, came running toward the car in her high heels. I re-

member drinking her in, smelling her perfume, feeling her heart

beat next to mine. It was the strongest love I’ve ever known. It was

pure joy. We held one another for more than ten minutes before let-

ting go.

While I was in Mexico, Beth, my Rock of Gibraltar, had shown

signs of cracking. When she told me she wasn’t sure I was going to

make it this time, I wept at the thought of never holding, kissing,

and being with her again. I worried she felt helpless. I was sure she

was in a lot of pain. I can’t imagine how she must have felt while I

was incarcerated. Seeing her now, in this moment of pure bliss, was

better than I dreamed. It was just me, D-o-g, and Him, G-o-d, down

there in Mexico. Now that I was home, I would never be alone

again.

C h a p t e r F i f t y - t w o

JUSTICE DENIED

Thirty-six hours after
I was reunited with Beth, she and

I found ourselves thrust into a media feeding frenzy, the likes of

which we had never experienced. We scheduled our first press con-

ference to answer as many questions as we could. Beth was adamant

the lawyers do all the talking, but I had a lot to say. I still had a

black eye from fighting in jail, so I wore my sunglasses to hide my

battered face. I was flanked by two lawyers, one on each side—Les

Abell and Jim Blancarte. These are two of the best defense attorneys

in the world. Forty cameras pointed directly at me, with a multitude

of journalists waiting to hear firsthand what happened in Mexico. I

began to speak. Twenty minutes later, the press was still mesmer-

ized by my story. My lawyers were so taken by what I was saying,

they forgot to stop me from talking!

The media asked some very poignant questions. Some I could

answer, others I still wonder about.

“Dog, why did the FBI abandon you?”

I said, “Did you hear what the FBI was doing the night I got ar-

rested? I’m sure they had bigger fish to fry.” I had no way of know-

ing what the FBI was doing or not. I had to believe it was something

more important than helping me since they left me in Mexico to

fend for myself.

“The FBI said they had no idea what you were doing. Is that

true?”

J u s t i c e D e n i e d

283

I laughed. “They’re the FBI. The have to say that.”

“Would you ever go back to Mexico?”

“Never.”

“Do you feel the government tried to trap you?”

“Yes, I do. I communicated everything I knew. The FBI told me

nothing. Despite their claims, I received no help. They were in the

loop every step of the way.” At one point, after I was arrested, Beth

told me she received a call from a prominent FBI agent saying they

had to disassociate themselves from us. They couldn’t let it leak

that they were always in the know.

The press conference was a success. My goal was to let the world

know the truth about Andrew Luster, Mexico, and the Dog. Tim

hung in there, staying in L.A. to face the press with Beth and me for

a week. Leland was uncomfortable with all of the attention, so af-

ter the press conference, he caught the next flight back to Hawaii to

be with his family.

There was additional unexpected fallout from capturing Luster.

A small group of bounty hunters from New Hampshire began to

campaign against me. I have been dealing with these guys repeat-

edly over the years. The more recognition I received, the more they

resented me. Their distaste for my unique, nonconformist, untradi-

tional way of doing business makes them terribly uncomfortable.

They have tried to run me out of the business more times than I

can count. In their effort to discredit us, our Mexican mug shots be-

gan popping up all over the Internet. “These men are Wanted.” Sud-

denly, everywhere I went, there were Wanted posters of Tim, Leland,

and myself. As part of their well-organized smear campaign, the

four guys from New Hampshire did a television interview—faces

hidden, of course—saying we were immoral vigilantes and danger-

ous, hardened criminals. They claimed I was a bad example, a bounty

hunter who did not reflect the rest of the industry in my practices

and therefore was damaging their good names and reputations. It

was laughable.

One of the guys even threatened me during an interview. He

held up an eight-inch metal pipe, looked right into the camera, and

said, “You see this, Doggie? You see this, Chapman? This is going

right up your ass when I see you. Oh, yes. You will have my babies!”

He was surrounded by what appeared to be six Ku Klux Klan mem-

bers, who all laughed at the thought of this jerk sodomizing me.

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

That threat is a stone-cold felony, but I can’t get anyone to take ac-

tion. In the eyes of the feds, all it would do is bring more attention

and publicity my way. That’s the last thing they’re looking to do.

One thing is certain. That footage has never and will never air

again.

The New Hampshire bounty hunters have made it their per-

sonal mission to get an arrest warrant to send me back to Mexico

to stand trial for the charges against me. To be clear, I am not a

wanted man in the United States of America. In order for me to

stand trial, I would have to somehow end up back in Mexico. There

are only two ways that will ever happen. Someone would have to

kidnap me and somehow get me over the border into the hands of

the Mexican authorities. Or, the United States government would

have to extradite me to Mexico. At the time, the idea of either of

these scenarios ever happening was beyond comprehension.

Beth did her best to shut down the attack, but the four New

Hampshire bounty hunters were attempting to destroy me at a time

when I was already quite vulnerable. In fact, to this day, they are

still gunning for me.

After the interviews and media attention died down, Beth and I

flew back to Hawaii to reunite with our family. We had spent our

last dollar chasing Luster and getting me out of jail, and now the

harsh reality was sinking in that, once again, we were completely

broke. A couple of days later, the electric company shut off our

power. We couldn’t even scrape together enough money to pay the

overdue bill. I checked our family into a hotel until we could finan-

cially get back on our feet. We lived off our credit cards, hoping