Chapman Duane Lee - Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given

July 17, 1971

I t was an unusually hot summer day in Colorado. I tried to beat the heat by taking a ride on my Harley from Denver up to Boulder. I roared along the interstate for thirty minutes, and as I rolled over the last ridge before the exit, the majestic foothills of the great Rocky Mountains came into sight. The flatirons are breathtaking, especially when the summer haze beats down on their jagged copper-colored edges.

Life was good. I was in the Devils Disciples, had money in my pocket and my chopped Harley under me. When I pulled into town, my engine rumbled loudly as I slowly cruised along Broadway, Boulders main strip. I couldnt help but notice people turning their heads to check me out. I stopped at a red light, placed my feet on the pavement to balance my machine, and then looked to my right. I recognized the guy on the bike next to me. It was Magic, a member of a rival gang, the Husky Hustlers. I was in no mood for trouble. It was too hot, and even though I never backed down from someone like Magic, I didnt have the fight in me that day. At least, thats what I was thinking when I opened my leather vest to show Magic my .45 automatic. He saw the gun and looked me right in the eyes as if to say, Yeah, so what? Magic was tough like that.

When the light turned green, I took off, but not before pulling the hammer back on my .45.

Blam.

I shot him.

I didnt feel a thing as I watched the bullet pierce his chest. It appeared to be moving in slow motion as I pulled away. I kept riding as Magic fell to the street, splattering his bike and brains all over the pavement.

It was an unwritten rule in our gang that if you pulled a gun, youd better shoot. Whats the point of shooting to wound? There is none. You had to aim to kill or be prepared to take a bullet for your hesitation.

I knew Id killed him. I punched the throttle so that the sound of my engine would drown out the thoughts of prison racing through my head.

Police cars sped past me as I made my way out of town. The last image of Boulder I recall that day was the spinning red lights of an ambulance in my rearview mirrors.

I made my way back to Denver in less than twenty minutes. I was flying down the highway. I spent the entire ride figuring out what I would do, where I could hide, who I could tell, and what I would say if I got pulled over.

I wasnt worried about being popped. I had been pulling off robberies for years and never got caught. I rolled hippies in Washington Park in Denver for their drugs and cash. I had battled and survived the infamous shoot-out on Mission Hill. After that incident, I had convinced myself I was invincible. And for a time, I was. Nothing could stop me or take me down, especially a dead biker hood from a rival gang. Who would give a damn about him anyway? At least, thats what I kept telling myself all the way back to Denver.

When I got home, I hid my bike in a neighbors garage. I wanted to be careful not to give the cops a reason to come knocking on my door. If they showed up, Id have to run. If I headed back to Phoenix, theyd probably find me there. I could go to New Mexico or Texas. I had been thinking of getting out of the Disciples anyway. Maybe this was the right time. I had to think, clear my head. I took a couple of Valium and slammed an ice-cold beer to help calm my nerves. My anxiety was growing with each passing minute. I jumped every time I heard a car outside, thinking it might be the cops.

I was tiredmentally exhaustedso I lay down on my old worn couch. I kept my heavy black boots on just in case I had to run. It didnt take long for the Valium to kick in. Soon I was out cold. It seemed like I had been sleeping for only a few minutes before I heard a loud pounding on the door.

Open up. Its the police. We know youre in there. Come out with your hands up and no one will get hurt.

I immediately jumped into action. I thought that if I got a running start out the door I could make it over the hedges in the backyard. I checked for my wallet and a picture of my mom. I was making a run for it. I wasnt about to go down without a fight. Hell, at the very least, Id give them a good run.

I bolted through the door and leapt across the yard in two giant steps. I put my entire body into it. I was up and over the hedges like an Olympic high jumper. I hit the ground hard, so hard I momentarily lost my breath. I rolled out of my fall and made it to my feet in one fast motion. My legs were moving as fast as they could run. I was in a full sprint. Sweat from my brow stung my eyes. I turned the corner onto Sixteenth Street to find it barricaded with cops and patrol cars. The police had formed a human chain so I couldnt bust through. I scanned the perimeter to see if I could take a chance. But it was clear I had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I threw my hands up in the air.

You got me. I began to laugh, but it wasnt funny. No, there wasnt anything funny about what was happening. I was screwed and everyone knew it.

As I stood in front of the judge on my day of reckoning, I heard him say, Duane Lee Chapman, you have been found guilty of murder in the first degree. I hereby sentence you to death. You will suffer as your victim did. I sentence you to the gas chamber. The judge slammed his gavel down like he was hammering nails. And he wasthe nails to my coffin.

The next thing I knew, a guard held each of my arms as two of them led me to the chamber where I was set to die. I sat straight up, scared and confused as they strapped me in so tight that I was unable to move. I could barely see the bucket underneath me, but I knew it was there because I could hear the bubbling sound of toxic substances as the guard slowly switched on the gas.

Breathe in, Chapman. Long, deep breaths. The officer was instructing me on how to die. I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight.

I didnt want to be there. Please God. Make this stop, I pleaded.

Suddenly I heard a voice Ill never forget. It was the voice of the Almighty.

Theres a thin line between success and failure, Duane. You have crossed that line one too many times. I have waited for you to find your way, but you failed me, and now, you will be eternally lost, my son.

Suddenly images began flashing in my head. My mind became cluttered but my heart was strangely calm. I saw myself thirty-five years older. I had a family. Children, grandchildren, and a beautiful buxom blonde I didnt recognize by my side. The Lord was showing me a television show. My show. How could that be? I looked exactly the same, only older.

Take another deep breath, Chapman, the guard demanded.

Wait! I screamed. Stop! This cant be happening. Im too young to die. I want to live. Ill do better. I promise. I was pleading for my life.

Aint no one gonna help you now, Chapman. Youre a dead man. Breathe in. And that was the last thing I heard.

Lucy Pemoni

October 31, 2007

D uane, Duane. Big Daddy, wake up. Youre dreaming again. Beth gently shook me as she often does when I have a nightmare. It took me a second to realize I was safe.

Hell, it took me a second to realize that I was still alive.

Id been having a lot of bad dreams lately. I get scared once in a while, especially when things are going good. I was enjoying the success of my first book, You Can Run, but You Cant Hide, which debuted number one on the New York Times bestseller list. The charges against me in Mexico for the capture of Andrew Luster were about to be dropped, and my show on A&E was enjoying great success. When things are going like that, I often wonder if I will wake up someday and realize it was all a dream.