You Can Run but You Can't Hide (43 page)

Lawyers began swarming to the jail like flies on a turd. Each one

came to tell us we had big problems.

“Beth sent me,” one of them said.

“Oh yeah? What’s the password?” Beth and I have a secret pass-

word we use for situations like this. To confirm the validity of the

person sitting in front of me, I asked him again.

“Tell me the password, and I’ll believe anything you say.”

“Jesus.”

Wrong answer. I dismissed him with the back of my hand. I

knew Beth didn’t send this punk.

Every lawyer who came in made the same mistake. Some in-

sisted Beth already sent money to them, others just tried to extort

money from me on the spot. They were all a bunch of crooked liars

who were on the take. I would soon discover that was true of all

Mexican lawyers, even the “good guys.”

Later that day, the boys and I did the perp walk in cuffs and

shackles, from the jail to the court to see the judge. I couldn’t be-

lieve how many people were camped outside. Mostly it was media,

but there were also a lot of good citizens out there holding up signs

wishing us well and offering their support. One guy jumped out of

the line and whispered in my ear, “Beth sent me.” Now, this was the

fourth guy in two hours giving me the same line.

“Oh, yeah? What’s the password?”

“Big Daddy.” I stopped cold in my tracks.

Oh, my God. He knew the password. “Come here, brother.

What’s your name?”

“Jorge.” He spoke English. I almost fell to my knees to thank Je-

sus until he told me he was from Texas. No way would Beth hire a

lawyer from Texas.

“You’re not my lawyer, you asshole.” I turned to walk away.

Jorge said, “OK, Big Daddy.”

Something in the way he said those three words made me turn

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around again. I walked back to Jorge and said, “Did she really send

you?” He nodded. The news footage shot from that day clearly shows

this exchange. It was amazing. As I continued toward the courthouse,

it suddenly occurred to me we were in the deepest pile of you know

what.

The most important thing to know about Mexican jail is they

don’t care about you at all. The conditions were disgusting. Mexico

is a very poor country. Their government doesn’t have the money to

feed lowly prisoners. You must have family or friends bring you

food, or you will starve. They did offer minimal food, mostly tor-

tillas or beans, but guards usually pissed on it before giving it to

prisoners. I warned the boys, no matter what, they were not to eat

or drink anything the guards offered. I was thankful that Gina, Min

and Mona’s stepdaughter, and Anthony Galloway, a producer from

Dateline
whom Beth called, brought us food. Over the course of

our first three days in jail, we only ate twice.

The cell consisted of three concrete slabs set into the wall as

makeshift beds. There were no mattresses or blankets. There was one

toilet that looked as if it hadn’t been flushed for years. The debris

from the overflow was all over the concrete floor. The smell was un-

bearable. All of us were on the verge of puking from a combination

of stress, hunger, and the unthinkable environment.

One by one, the cops kept bringing tough Mexican criminals

into the cell. These guys were nasty lowlifes. One of the cops was

having a difficult time wrangling his convict, so I reached through

the bars, grabbed him from behind, and put him into a headlock. I

could have ripped the guy’s head right off his neck. The Mexican

cop began to beat the crap out of the guy while I held him still. Fi-

nally, he went limp. I spun him around so the cop could cuff him.

“
Perro,
why did you do that?”

I said, “Look, brah, I’m sort of a cop too. I’m not going to let a

convict treat you like that. He was disrespecting you.”

“How did you get him in that choke hold?” The cops are always

curious about my moves.

“Let me out of here and I will show you.”

“No way. You’ll run.”

“I won’t run. You badasses will kill me!” I nicknamed the cop

Roberto Duran Stonehands, because he fought every night. The rap-

port began.

M e x i c a n P r i s o n

267

“
Sí, Perro.
We will shoot you dead.”

The cop actually let me out. As convicts came through the jail, I

showed him how I would take them down—Dog style.

“Hit the wall. Spread your legs. Put your thumbs together.” I

turned to the cop, and said, “Now you try it.”

He loved it. At the very least, it helped pass the time.

The second night in jail, one of the cops came to me and said

he needed me to sign a statement swearing I was indeed Duane

Chapman and my purpose for being in Mexico was to apprehend

Andrew Luster. I looked at the cop and said, “OK. I’m ready to

confess.”

The boys were in shock. Leland said, “No, Dad. What are you

doing?”

I turned to the guys and said, “I’m sorry, you guys, I have to do

this. I’ll take all of the blame.” The cops led me from my cell to a

table where I sat surrounded by more Mexican cops. One guy lit a

cigarette for me, another handed me a Coke. To be honest, I had no

intentions of confessing. I did it to get out of the stench of my cell

for a few minutes. And since I hadn’t eaten for a couple of days, the

soda tasted really good.

After a few minutes, I turned to the cop who came to get my state-

ment and said, “You know what? You’re making me nervous. There’s

too many of you. I’m not ready to make my statement. Take me back

to my cell.” I did this three more times until they finally figured out

I was never giving them a statement. I wanted to meet the guys in

charge. I wanted to know who I was up against.

Later that night, the cops put a loud, obviously very drunk man

in the cell next to mine. He was a big monster son of a bitch. It took

three cops on each arm to get him locked up. When he walked past

our cell, he growled at us.

“Fuck you, pigs.” He was speaking a combination of English

and Spanish. I saw one of the cops carry a ten foot chain into his

cell. They wrapped it around his arms and waist and bolted him

down to a hook in the concrete floor.

The boys and I exchanged a look. He sounded like a nasty dude.

A little later, I was startled by the sound of jingling keys outside

my cell. All I could think was “Now what?”

“
Perro.
Come with me.” The guard walked me six feet to the left

and put me in the cell with the drunken Mexican. As the guard

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shoved me into the cell, he pointed at me and said, “He no like

Mexicans.”

I sat down on the bench next to this poor bastard. As far as I

could tell, the guards were hoping one of us would kill the other. If

they got lucky, we both would die.

I broke the ice by saying, “I used to think I was Mexican until I

was fifteen.” Thank God the guy laughed.

“You know what these pigs are doing, right, brother?”

“I’ll kill you.” The guy could barely speak, and his breath . . .

well, let’s just say he could have used a Tic Tac.

“Yeah, I know you’ll kill me. And they’re going to laugh at you

while watching you do it. It’s what they want.”

“I know,
Perro.
” He began to cry like a giant two-hundred-fifty-

pound baby. I have found it helps to let a criminal cry. But you can’t

let them cry too much, or they will get mad at you for seeing them

in such a vulnerable state.

“It’s OK. You just need to relax for a while. Lay down. Take a

nap.” He was out cold before I hit the word “nap.”

I walked to the front of the cell. When the cop saw me, he

opened the door, and let me go back to my cell. I think he was in

shock that I was still standing.

The next morning, Jorge came to the jail bearing bad news. He

held up the newspaper, with a headline that screamed the governor

had ordered the judge on our case to charge us all with kidnapping.

I asked Jorge to read me the Mexican statute on kidnapping. He de-

scribed it as a case that involved the exchange of money, crossing

a border, and making calls for ransom. That definitely didn’t mesh

with what went down in our case. We were innocent. We hadn’t

done any of those things.

Jorge seemed sympathetic. He said he believed that we didn’t

commit a felony crime of kidnapping, but he thought the judge was

going to insist on pressing charges for holding that scumbag Luster

against his will. Jorge explained that that charge is a misdemeanor.

It’s called deprivation of liberty. He thought we had a very good

chance to beat the kidnapping rap.

And then Jorge began to tell me he was having a hard time get-

ting enough money from Beth to fight the case. He needed a lot

more than the ten grand she had already wired. He was worried he

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269

wouldn’t be able to get the charges dropped unless he had enough

money to “work the system.” I’d later discover that the Mexican

courts run like Enron. Everyone is on the take. You buy your free-

dom in Mexico. The bottom line is—no money, no chance.

I told Jorge I had a five-thousand-dollar money order in my wal-

let. Miraculously the cops missed it when they were going through

my personal effects while I was being booked. Five thousand dollars

was more money than Beth and I had ever saved. We pretty much

lived hand-to-mouth. We were so proud to have that extra cash for

a rainy day. Our intention was to use it on something special. I kept

that money order in my wallet for months. Beth and I had no idea

the special occasion would be bailing my ass out of a Mexican

prison. I told Jorge to take the money, which he did. Even so, I

wasn’t sure that would be enough to get us out.

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

POSTING BAIL

On the mor ning
of our fourth day in prison, we were trans-

ferred to the jail in downtown Puerto Vallarta. We were told our

hearing was going to be in the next day or two. The media frenzy

was becoming unmanageable for the Mexican authorities. They

thought moving us would help them keep it under control.

I was aware the media had been covering the case, but until we

were transferred, I had no clue as to the extent. When we walked

from the jail to the van, I was approached by a producer from a ma-

jor network news show. He was yelling at me.

“Duane, it’s me, from the morning show. Beth sent me to get sup-

plies for you. I’ve got Excedrin and Vaseline, just like you wanted!”

Hold up.

I had to stop. Who was this jerk shouting he got me Vaseline as

I’m being transferred from one jail to another? I went after him too,

but my hands were cuffed. As it turned out, Beth had sent him and

the Vaseline was for my burns.

The van that transferred all of us had to inch its way through

hundreds of reporters, all wanting a statement. There were photog-

raphers and camera crews everywhere we looked. It was a blessing

and a curse. I knew the Mexican police couldn’t do anything horri-

ble to us with the eyes of the world watching them. On the other

hand, I didn’t want them to get so pissed off from all of the hoo-ha

that they didn’t give us a fair trial.

P o s t i n g B a i l

271

When we got to the new jail, it was something of a pleasant sur-

prise. It was like a holding facility with much more humane condi-

tions. I never thought I’d be so overjoyed at the sight of a semiclean

toilet.

At this point, Boris and Jeff had one attorney, and Leland, Tim,

and I had another. It was in their best interest to separate their cases

from ours. My only concern was that their lawyer would attempt to

throw us under the bus in exchange for his clients’ freedom. It was a

risk I could do nothing about.

Six Mexican detectives came to see me. I didn’t know what to

expect when they all showed up at my cell.

“We have something you might want.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” They handed me my Colorado Fugi-

tive Apprehension Badge. I was flabbergasted.

“We can’t let you keep it. But we thought you might like to see

how shiny we made it.” These guys weren’t messing with me. They

asked me to sign autographs for their wives and kids. They were

rooting for this Dog.

My worst day in jail was the day my lawyer came to talk to us

about the proceedings. He let me use his cell phone to call Beth. I

hadn’t spoken to her once since the call I made after catching Luster.

“Honey, are we going to be OK?” I couldn’t stop myself from

crying.

“I’m not sure, Duane.” I had never heard Beth say that to me.

She always tells me things are going to be fine. Hearing her uncer-

tainty scared the crap out of me because Beth never wavers.

“You think they’re going to make the kidnapping charges stick?”

“Maybe.” Again, there was doubt. Where was my strong Beth?