You Can Run but You Can't Hide (15 page)

ready when I spotted Boss Ironhorn walking by. I probably should

have gone about my business, but I was too excited.

“How ya doin’ there, Boss?” I asked him.

He immediately stopped and whipped his head around. “What

in the fuck did you just say to me, boy?” he shouted. “Are you being

a smartass? Up on the wall now! I don’t want to hear another word

out of you, Chapman! There’s a difference between going home

and being home, boy. And for the moment, you are still mine.”

At first, I couldn’t understand why Ironhorn was so pissed off at

me that day. It took me a long time to figure out that he didn’t want

me having any fond memories of Huntsville. He hoped I would

never be back.

C h a p t e r F o u r t e e n

GOING HOME

The day I
got out of Huntsville, I was handed a check for two

hundred dollars, along with the personal belongings I had when I

went in. I didn’t have much—just an old pair of Levi’s, a pair of

boots, and my old, tattered chain wallet. I was told it is a Huntsville

tradition to kneel down in front of the large clock we inmates

called Big Ben and flip it the bird, so when I got out, I followed suit.

My next order of business was to get my check cashed. The

prison preacher had a small trailer set up right next to the clock

where he’d cash inmates’ checks—for a 20-percent surcharge. That

rotten son of a bitch knew most of those guys were leaving helpless

and homeless. Some of them had been in for fifteen or twenty years.

Two hundred bucks is all they had to their name. I thought it was a

scumbag move, so I wouldn’t let him cash my check.

I needed cash to get far away from Huntsville as fast as I could. I

went into town to buy a cheap suit. I showed the clerk my discharge

papers saying I was on parole for murder and then handed her my

check. Her hands were shaking when she gave me back my change.

Once I had money, I decided to get myself a thirty-dollar whore.

Then I was able to find a .25 automatic for twenty bucks. I was go-

ing home to shoot Jim Darnell, the bastard who stole LaFonda. Be-

fore I left Huntsville, I told the warden to save my cell. I was sure I’d

be back soon. I wanted to shoot the son of a bitch dead. I was a

man on fire, obsessed with vengeance. The only information I had

G o i n g H o m e

87

was that they were still living in Pampa. My plan was to go back to

Denver, get a car, and drive down to Texas to hurt them both.

I hopped a bus from Huntsville to Dallas, where I bought a one-

way plane ticket to Denver for ninety dollars. I was almost bone-dry

out of money. Mom and Dad were picking me up at the airport.

Somehow, I got through security with my gun stuffed down the

backside of my pants. I figured I could distract the head of security

if I walked up to him and flashed my parole sheet that said I was

out on murder-one, so he would motion me on through without a

pat-down. I was cocky, arrogant, and stupid. If I had been caught

with a concealed weapon, I could have gone right back to prison. I

wasn’t thinking right. I was still in my convict frame of mind. Liv-

ing inside the prison taught me many things, but one of the most

important was how to survive in a world of criminals. You have to

think like one, live like one, and eat, sleep, and breathe like one if

you want to stay alive. The transition to being a free man would

take time and nothing short of a miracle.

I hadn’t had a drink in almost two years. The moment I got on

the plane I ordered up a couple of tiny plane-size bottles of vodka

and slammed them, blam, blam. Then, I ordered a couple more. Fif-

teen minutes into the flight, I was drunk off my ass. I noticed a tall,

red-haired man seated next to me at the window. Now, as long as I

can remember, I never got along with redheaded guys. They were

the whitest kids in school. For whatever reason, they used to pick

on me the most, calling me “half-breed” and Injun. So, when I no-

ticed the guy sitting to my left, my defenses went straight up, think-

ing we were going to rumble.

I was about to slam my fifth vodka when I felt the redheaded

man put his hand on my arm.

“Where you going?”

I looked straight at him and said, “You ever hear that song, ‘Hey

Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand?’ ” He nodded his

head yes. “Well, I’m going to shoot the man that stole my wife.”

I began to tell him my whole life story. I found myself talking

openly and freely. I hadn’t felt that comfortable in years. He

seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being. He tried to com-

fort me with his kind words and warm way of talking. “God’s got

a plan for you,” he said. He seemed to know something I couldn’t

begin to understand.

88

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

“I’m not sure I’m following you, friend.” I was too drunk to put

a lot of thought into what he was saying.

“God has huge plans for your life. Hang in there.”

Whatever. God wasn’t even on my radar screen. I had given up

hope and faith when I was in jail. I was so consumed with revenge

and hate, I didn’t have the desire to think about God’s great eternal

plan.

By the time we landed in Denver, though, I began to think about

trying to do something better with my life. I turned to say good-bye

to the redheaded gentleman, but he was gone. As I deplaned, I

asked the stewardess if she had seen the guy sitting next to me.

“Sir, the seat was empty. There was no one sitting next to you.”

I thought she was crazy. “No. I was seated on the aisle, and

he was sitting in the window seat. Tall guy. Red hair. We talked the

entire flight.”

The stewardess looked at me as blank as a sheet of paper. “No,

sir. There was no one there. You spent most of the flight talking to

yourself.”

Mom and Dad were waiting for me right outside the gate in

Denver. Mom and I hugged first. I didn’t want to let go. It felt so

good to hold my mom. Dad wasn’t a hugger. He put his arm

around my shoulders, pulled me close with his huge hand, and pat-

ted me a few times. Dad had enormous hands. When he grabbed

something, it was gone. His hip brushed against the gun I had

shoved in my front pocket.

“No, Duane. Not like this.” Dad reached down to pull the gun

from my waist.

“I know, Dad, I know that now. Wait, I want you to meet a

friend I made on the plane.” Once again, I looked around for the

redheaded man, but he was gone.

My mother could see I was confused. “Duane, what happened?”

I told her about the man on the plane. I was sure he was there,

but the stewardess said no one was sitting next to me. I didn’t un-

derstand why I was so mixed up.

“Son, I believe you were sitting with an angel.” Mom put her

arm around me as we walked to the car.

A lot of the guys I met in prison often talked about how they

could see angels. I wondered why they could and I never could. I

met a preacher in prison who told me the only way to see one of

G o i n g H o m e

89

God’s angels was to pray—pray as hard as I could. Later that night,

I went back to my cell to see if I could summon one up.

“Lord, right now. I want to see an angel. Please, Lord.” Eyes

closed, fists clenched, I prayed those words over and over.

All of a sudden, I was overcome by fear. Something terrified the

hell out of me.

The next day, I went to see the preacher. I told him what happened.

“Whew. You were summoning up an angel all right, but proba-

bly the angel of death. God will show you what you want to see in

His own time. What God needs from you right now is faith.”

I never forgot what the preacher said. Faith is what God needed

from
me.
I’ve spent most of my life asking for what I needed from

Him.

Up until that plane ride home, I didn’t think I’d ever see an an-

gel. But I sure as hell have met the devil—more than once. But

maybe Mom was right. Maybe the red-haired man was truly a mes-

senger sent by God. Prison stripped me of everything, including my

faith. I wasn’t sure I’d ever find it again.

On the ride home from the airport, I had to lie down on the

backseat. The oncoming headlights were so bright that my eyes

couldn’t take the light. I kept ducking my head down in the back-

seat to avoid them.

“Duane, what the hell is wrong with you?” Flash was practically

yelling.

“Damn, those lights are bright, Dad.” Other than my time hoe-

ing in the fields, I hadn’t seen the sun, moon, stars, or headlights in

almost two years. The occasional glimpse of the moon I did get on

the inside made it look like a dull flashlight.

Anything above a sixty-watt fluorescent bulb was excruciating

to my eyes. I was convinced the cars coming the other way were go-

ing to crash into us. I was paranoid and scared. I wasn’t big, bad

Dog Chapman, that’s for sure. I began to sweat from nerves and

stress.

“Duane, get hold of yourself, son!” Flash tried to look back

from the front seat to see if I was all right.

I just wanted to die.

C h a p t e r F i f t e e n

VENGEANCE

My parents fixed
up their basement for me to live in when

I got back from prison. I spent the first week drunk and high. I

hardly ever got out of bed except to pee and eat. I found it really

hard to adjust to life outside of prison. I actually thought it was

easier to be inside. The strict regimen had been easy to get used to.

Total freedom was a challenge. Though I had only served eighteen

months, I could barely remember what life on the outside felt like. I

had become used to someone else telling me what to do all the time.

In fact, I kind of missed it.

When I finally did get out of bed, I was in search of whatever

drugs I could find to keep me numb. I got our family doctor to pre-

scribe fifty Valium, which I told him I lost so I could get fifty more.

My mother tried to get me up so I could start looking for a job.

At the very least, she wanted me to eat. I was losing weight from

not eating. I developed a cyst on my neck from dehydration and

too much Valium. I was a pathetic sight. I didn’t want to live with-

out my family. I was filled with burning rage toward LaFonda for

leaving me while I was in prison. She had my two babies and was

shacked up with my former buddy, Jim Darnell. I wanted to kill

the son of a bitch. He took my wife and my family. And like a cow-

ard, he did it while I was locked up, unable to defend what was

mine.

My mom kept telling me I was in love with a memory. She knew

Ve n g e a n c e

91

my marriage to LaFonda was far from perfect. Still, I couldn’t help

missing her. One day, my mom came to me and said, “Son, God will

give you everything you desire. His son, His house, His heaven, every

blessing, the angels—but He won’t give you one thing.”

Curious, I asked, “What’s that?”

“God will not give you His vengeance. God says, ‘Vengeance is

mine. I shall repay.’ If you go shoot Jim Darnell, son, you’re rob-

bing God of His vengeance.”

I was blown away. How could my sweet, gentle, kindhearted

mother possibly understand what I was thinking?

“Duane, if you stick a gun at Jim’s head, you’re sticking one at

God’s head.”

Mom understood how I felt, and yet in her heart she had faith

that God would take care of business for me. But it would have to

happen in His own time. Meanwhile, Mom wanted me to pull my-

self together. She insisted it was time for me to get out of bed. But I

wouldn’t budge.

Unbeknownst to me, Mom called up a man she knew named

Herman Cadillo, a Kirby vacuum salesman who lived in Denver. He

came to the house to see if he could encourage me to go out on the

road and sell some vacuums.

I liked him. He was a big, stocky Latino with a crooked smile.

Despite his valiant attempts, I wasn’t interested. I had no interest in

leaving my parents’ basement. Not now. Not ever.

Being the salesman he was, however, Herman refused to take no

for an answer. He literally picked me up and carried me to his car.

Whether I liked it or not, I was going on the road. Our first stop

was Fort Morgan, Colorado. He checked me into a cheap motel

room and gave me twenty-four hours to come down from the drugs

and clean up my act. I guess he didn’t know how far gone I was, be-

cause it took closer to five days for me to be completely sober. I

spent most of the time praying to God to make the pain go away.

My heart was shattered and my mind was filled with fog. I needed

the Lord to help me get off the drugs and past my hurt.

It took a week, but I emerged drug-free. I was back to my old

self. The cyst had subsided, my depression had lifted, and I began

to look healthy again. Herman got me back on my feet. I didn’t

know it at the time, but when Mom called Herman, she gave me