Free You Can Run but You Can't Hide by Duane Dog Chapman Page A

bullet—big time.
    The next morning, LaFonda and I woke up to the sound of the
    morning news blaring from the clock radio next to our bed. We
    were still half-asleep until I heard something like, “. . . local police
    are searching for Duane Chapman in connection with the murder
    of Jerry Lee Oliver late last night. . . .”
    Murder? Did he say murder? That meant Jerry Lee was dead.
    And they think I did it.
    “LaFonda. Get up. Get up. We gotta go. Get the kids, honey. We
    have to get outta here.”
    There was no time to talk. I got dressed as fast as I could. I told
    LaFonda to grab whatever was essential and drive our camper out
    to Skellytown.
    “Honey, you gotta hurry. Wait for me by the highway. I will meet
    you there as soon as I can.”
    I wanted to get over the Texas state line and into Colorado. With
    God’s help, we’d be eating dinner at my momma’s house in Denver
    within twenty-four hours.
    I moved quickly and cautiously. The cops were already outside
    the house. I told LaFonda to answer the door like she didn’t know
    a thing.
    “Tell them I’m at work. Tell them I already left.”
    She answered the door cool as could be.
    “Yes? May I help you?”
    That’s it. Stay calm. LaFonda was cool.
    I could hear the officers asking if I was home.
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    Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e
    “No, sir. Duane has already gone off to work.”
    They bought the story. The cops left, though I knew it wouldn’t
    be long before they’d discover I wasn’t at work. I had little time to
    make a run for my freedom.
    We lived on a quiet street, but on this particular morning, it
    seemed like you could hear every little thing. Just as I was about to
    leave, I heard the sound of the toggle switch revving up. It was get-
    ting louder. One turned into two. Two turned into a symphony of
    sirens. The cops were coming for me.
    I fully expected a couple cops to be drawing down on me as I
    blasted through my back door. I never stopped to open it. The door
    came right off the hinges. No one. I couldn’t believe it. I stood mo-
    tionless for a second before I realized I still had a chance. I made
    my move. I sprinted across the backyard, hopped the neighbor’s
    fence, and began my Olympic run down the alley. I kept thinking I
    had to run as fast as I could. I was sure the cops were just seconds
    behind me.
    Wrong.
    They were right in front of me.
    I got to the end of the alley, where I was met by a parked police
    cruiser. I recognized the cop right away. It was Officer Bailey. I’d had
    a few run-ins with this old man a couple of times. He wasn’t the
    sharpest tool in the shed, but needless to say, I thought I was done.
    My foot chase lasted less than three minutes. Some fugitive I turned
    out to be.
    Bailey was sitting in his patrol car, watching what was going
    down in front of my house. I thought about turning back the other
    way. Bailey hadn’t seen me yet. I could’ve made another run for
    it. But I kept asking myself why I was running in the first place.
    I didn’t kill Jerry Lee. All I was guilty of was being in the wrong
    place at the wrong time. My mistake was allowing a drunken ass-
    hole like Donny Kurkendall to hold my fate in his hands.
    Just then Bailey turned around. He nodded his head hello, not
    realizing it was me. It suddenly sunk in who was standing on the
    other side of his car. He turned back around. I could see his eyes
    widen with fear.
    He was so scared he could hardly speak. He asked me not to do
    anything stupid or get crazy on him.
    The thought never even crossed my mind. I had been arrested
    O n e N i g h t i n Pa m p a
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    many times before, but I never felt like this. This time was different.
    In my gut I knew I was going to do hard time. I had a wife and two
    babies. Who was going to watch over them? My heart ached for
    what I’d done to them and to my good friend Jerry Lee. Killing
    wasn’t my crime of choice. I was a thief. I was a con man. Hell, I
    was even a drug dealer. But