You Can Run but You Can't Hide (11 page)

told the jury that the dead wife of the man he was representing was

about to walk through the door. The jury heard a woman walking

toward the courtroom. When the door opened, it wasn’t her. But,

he told the jury, if they believed for one second it might have been,

they had to acquit his client for murder. Racehorse Haynes told me

I had nothing to worry about, but I was still scared.

LaFonda’s sister was supplying me with a steady flow of Valium

to keep me calm throughout the trial. To be honest, I was completely

spaced out the entire four days. The hippie I threw out of the car the

night of the murder showed up to testify against me. He told the jury

I told him to get out because I didn’t want him to be in on the plan,

because he wasn’t a Disciple brother. I was the only outsider on trial.

The rest were local Pampa kids. I didn’t stand a chance.

M u r d e r O n e

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In his closing statement, the DA advised the jury that Texas law

was very clear on one point, which would be my downfall. He said,

“Ladies and gentlemen, the law states that if the defendant was

present during the crime, then he is guilty.”

It didn’t take the jury very long to make their decision. Within a

few hours of adjourning to deliberate, they returned with their ver-

dict: Guilty of first-degree murder.

Judge McIllheney was the personification of what a Southern

judge should look and act like. He was larger than life. He spoke in

a deep, serious Southern drawl. He took his oath and his responsi-

bility to uphold the laws of Texas very seriously. He wasn’t the type

of judge to show mercy.

On August 10, 1977, Judge McIllheney sentenced me to five

years under supervision of the Texas Department of Corrections. I

had until the end of the month before I would be taken into custody

and shipped off to the Huntsville Penitentiary.

When the others got their day in court, the verdicts were pretty

much the same. All of us were found guilty of first-degree murder.

Cheryl was given five years probation, and Ruben was sentenced to

ten years probation. Because he pulled the trigger, Donny was sen-

tenced to do ten years of hard time.

While waiting to go to prison, I spent the bulk of my time high,

trying to avoid the inevitable. Reverend Middaugh did his best to

convince me not to give up hope. He attempted to help me find the

courage to stay strong in my faith and trust in the Lord, but I was

filled with doubt. I was now a convicted killer. The courts branded

me an outlaw. In my mind, I was condemned to hell. I told the rev-

erend to get out of my house. I didn’t want to face him or all the

good he stood for. I didn’t feel worthy of his kindness or support.

He genuinely appeared hurt by my words. I’ll never forget the look

on his face as he turned to walk away. At the time, I didn’t much

care what he thought. I was reckless and was once again spinning

completely out of control.

I wanted revenge. I wanted to say things to God one shouldn’t say.

“Murder-one, God?” I screamed and shook my fists in the air.

“Well, screw You. Who cares about You, God? What else can

You do to me? Lord, if You can hear me, I don’t care what You do

anymore. I hate You!”

Before they took me into custody, I wanted to show the Pampa

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

Police Department they had messed with the wrong guy. My life

was ruined. Of course, it was
their
fault, not mine. I’d show them

who was boss. After a few drinks and a couple of joints, I got an

idea to seek my revenge by convincing two of my Disciple brothers

to follow me out to the city maintenance grounds where I used to

work. We proceeded to dump gasoline all over the tool shed and

a bunch of city maintenance trucks, and then lit a match. We de-

stroyed $380,000 worth of equipment. I didn’t feel it was enough to

cover the damage that had been done to my life. I needed more re-

venge. I craved further redemption.

I was concerned that LaFonda would be strapped when I went to

prison, so I got an idea to report my Subaru stolen after I torched it

in a nearby vacant lot. That way, LaFonda could collect the insur-

ance money, and I could cover my ass from the fire I had set earlier

that same night.

I walked away from the vacant lot without ever looking back. My

car was gone. My life was over. I wanted to die. How the hell did I get

here? I walked three and a half miles asking myself that question over

and over and over again, until I finally got home and passed out.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of loud banging on my

front door. It was the cops. I was blurry-eyed and hungover.

I cracked open the door, half-dressed and half-awake.

“Good morning. Mr. Chapman?”

“Who’s asking?” I could see it was a cop, but it wasn’t anyone I

recognized.

“Uh. Yes, sir. I see here that you reported your car stolen last

night. Is that correct, sir?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Well, sir, it’s still smoldering in a nearby lot. Seems someone lit

your car on fire.”

“Aww. Man. Damn. I loved that little car.” I was one syllable short

of sarcastic. I didn’t want to appear too smug.

“Well, you see, Mr. Chapman, it ain’t that simple. We have wit-

nesses who saw you light the match at the dump last night. We have

reason to believe you torched your own car and reported it stolen to

collect on insurance.”

I took one step closer to the arrogant son of bitch and said, “Oh,

yeah? Prove it!” I didn’t care. I was already going down for murder-

one. What’s a little arson charge on top of that?

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63

“Fuck off.” I slammed the door and went back to bed. As I tried

to go back to sleep, I thought about what I had said to God the night

before. Probably wasn’t a good idea to say bad things to the Lord.

The next day, they threw me in jail without bail.

My lawyer, Bill Kolius, came to see me in jail and informed me

that the Pampa police had enough evidence to prove I burned the

dump. My only alternative was to accept a plea bargain from the DA

to do five years in jail with no chance to appeal the murder case. Bill

told me I could possibly win an appeal, but it might take as long as

three years. If I accepted the plea bargain, with good behavior, I’d

be out of prison in less than two. He actually thought a couple of

years behind bars would do me some good. As he described it, it

would be like going to boot camp. Some tough boundaries and dis-

cipline might help get me on track to lead a more productive, honest

life. Despite my ambivalence, I took the deal.

When the judge sentenced me he said, “I hereby sentence you

to five years of hard labor to the Texas Department of Corrections.

You are hereby remanded to the custody of the Sheriff’s Depart-

ment herewith, to be extradited very soon to Huntsville State Peni-

tentiary.”

I grabbed LaFonda like the day we got married and walked arm

in arm with her. I turned to the judge and said, “Your Honor, I can

hold a snuff can over a bear’s ass for five years.”

The judge took one look at me and said, “Good luck!”

C h a p t e r T e n

WELCOME

TO HUNTSVILLE

Sheriffs from the
Pampa Police Department put me on a

bus with a load of other prisoners to Amarillo before going on to

Huntsville. The windows on the bus didn’t open, so the lack of air,

combined with the intense heat, made me really sick. Once I got to

the Amarillo facility, I was thrown into a holding room and ordered

to put on prison whites. This was my introduction to hell.

“I ain’t gonna wear that,” I barked at them.

The guards exchanged a look. “Oh, you ain’t, huh?”

Two guards took hold of my Levi’s and literally tore my jeans

right off of my body. Before I knew it, they almost raped me. I told

them the only thing they were going to get from me was a dying

quiver.

Afterward, one of the guards smiled wide. “You think you can

take off your shirt, or would you like us to do that for you too?” I

got their message loud and clear.

I was taken from the holding cell in Amarillo to another facility

in Dallas before boarding the final bus. The sweltering trip to

Huntsville gave me a migraine headache that made my head spin. I

gritted my teeth and puked my guts out the whole way. I have had

terrible migraines my whole life.

When we arrived at the prison gate, I saw the razor wire, the

barking dogs, and all the guards up in the towers with their rifles. It

scared me to death. This wasn’t the Pampa county jail. Huntsville

We l c o m e t o H u n t s v i l l e

65

was the real deal. I was rehabilitated right then—scared absolutely

straight.

As soon I arrived, I was issued my prisoner number. From that

day on, I was simply known as prisoner Chapman, 271097.

From a raised platform, the warden looked down over me and

all of the rest of the new inmates. We were all now citizens of the

Texas Department of Corrections. No rights, no liberties, no jus-

tice at all. The warden was a tall, thin Texan in an oversize white

felt cowboy hat and mirrored aviator sunglasses. This particular

warden ran the evaluation center, which we called the Fish Tank,

the first stop for all new inmates.

“Now listen up! The word prison is derived from the word pun-

ishment. And that’s what we’re here for. We don’t give a shit about

trying to rehabilitate y’all. We are in the punishment business, not

the rehabilitation business. You will not make a move unless we say.

You will not breathe unless we say. You want to be some tough guy

and try and make trouble? My men and I will open your eyes to a

new level of suffering and pain. Now, any of you who thinks he’s a

badass or is a fuckin’ faggot, step up.”

During the two-day bus trip from Pampa, I’d already been la-

beled a troublemaker, so a wave of fear hit me when I noticed the

bus driver whispering into the warden’s ear. A scowl came over the

warden’s face. I had a terrible a sinking feeling in my gut. The war-

den yelled, “Where’s prisoner Chapman?”

I didn’t want the other prisoners to think I was queer, so I raised

my voice to everyone within earshot and said, “I’m stepping for-

ward because I am one hundred percent badass.”

“There you are, Chapman,” the warden said, staring me down.

“You’ve already earned the privilege of spending your first night at

Huntsville in the shitter.”

Uh oh. I knew all about the shitter, also known as the hole or

solitary confinement. It was a dark and dingy eight-by-eight cell

with a hole in the ground for a toilet. The unbearable stench in the

summer heat was the best thing I could say about being in there.

The immediate isolation was horrible. Instantly, I knew my life was

no longer my own. I made my way through that first night by crying

and praying. I didn’t sleep a wink.

The next morning, I was allowed to rejoin the other inmates.

Then we were given a series of tests and interviews to determine

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which farm we were sent to. The cold-blooded killers and psychos

were sent to a facility called Burning Ham. It had a reputation as the

most terrible farm at Huntsville, where prisoners rumbled to the

death practically on a daily basis. The younger, less threatening in-

mates were placed in a farm called Clemmons—also known as the

Grab Ass Farm, because everyone was constantly grabbing ass and

fighting. The old and handicapped inmates got put out at Wynn

Farm, and there was a prerelease camp for the short-timers called

Jester One. After Jester One, there was Jester Two, also known as

Kindness, because it wasn’t as harsh as the other Huntsville farms.

On my first day at the Fish Tank, I met a stocky guy from Pampa

named Bobby White who had been in and out of the joint before, so

he knew the ropes.

“Hey, kid, you’re gonna learn the hard way that the tough-guy

routine doesn’t mean shit here. One thing in your favor is that

you’re in for murder-one.”

I didn’t understand why he said that, so I asked Bobby, “How’s

that good for me?”

“Killers are the most feared and respected inmates in prison, be-

cause everyone already knows you’re a killer. They ain’t gonna mess

with you.” Good to know. Bobby also warned me that the wardens

were going be asking me lots of questions and testing me to deter-

mine which farm I’d get sent to. He said, “‘When you answer, make

them think you’re Jesus Christ.’”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You want to get shipped out to the Burning Ham? You heard

the stories about that place? It’s stacked with cold-blooded killers.

They’d eat you alive out there. Jester Two is where you want to be.

So, how do you reply when they ask you, ‘You walk in on your

woman fucking your best friend. What would you do?’ ”