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Beyond Boba Fett | ||
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TODAY'S BOUNTY HUNTERS PUT THE WILD WEST BEHIND THEM | ||||
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written by Gabriel Garner photos by Melissa Hagerstrand | ||||
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In a suburban Phoenix neighborhood, Chris Foote lies dead, his hand still gripping the gun he used in defense. His 19-year-old girlfriend, Spring Wright, lies inert next to him. Foote, 23, and his girlfriend were killed when David Brackney, 45, and four other men in ski masks and body armor, broke into his house. On August 31, Foote managed to draw a 9 mm handgun, but only wounded Brackney before he and his girlfriend were riddled with bullets. Later, Brackney stumbles into a hospital bleeding from gunshot wounds and avoids questions about the source of his injuries. When Phoenix police catch up with him, he shows them a $25,000 bail warrant for a California man who jumped bail more than two years ago. "We’re bounty hunters," Brackney explains to the police. "We were looking for this man." The following day, tabloid TV raves, talk-show hosts salivate and the popular press picks up the story as headlines across the country tell the story of bounty hunters out of control. The incident in Phoenix turns the public eye toward the country’s bounty hunters and the criticisms begin. There’s just one problem ... they weren’t bounty hunters. Bounty hunters today are more like bill collectors with guns. Theirs is a complicated process that starts with an arrest. When suspects are apprehended, the court may grant them freedom until their trial dates. But to insure they actually show up for their trial and don’t make a run for the border, judges require they hand a chunk of cash over for the court to hold until their trial. In other words, they set bail. Because bail can often run in the thousands-of-dollars range, most suspects go to a bail bondsman for a loan that buys them temporary freedom. But bondsmen require the suspect find a cosigner on the loan, usually a family member or friend, since it’s hard to trust the credit of someone calling from a jail cell. Unlike bank loans that charge interest, bail bondsmen charge a flat rate of 10 percent. If bail is $2,000, a bondsman will charge the suspect $200, cash up front. With that, suspects are freed on the condition they show up for trial on a specified date. In most cases, they show and the money is returned to the bail bondsman. It’s when the suspect doesn’t show, defined as a "skip," that a bail-enforcement agent (bounty hunter) is employed.
"They give me 180 days to find him," says Dennis Badong. Badong sits at the kitchen table of his San Francisco home. For the past six years, he’s made a living hunting skips and returning them to court so they can stand trial. Unlike a cop, Badong’s not interested in the crimes of his subjects. He’s concerned with the debts they owe the bail bondsmen, his clients. As he explains, he enforces contracts, not laws. "The judge holds on to the money and tells the bail bondsmen they have 180 days to produce the suspect," he adds. "After that, [the court] keeps the money. I’m protecting my clients’ investments." Polite, soft spoken and standing at about 5 feet 9 inches, Badong is a far cry from the Wild West bounty-hunter image. His hair is cropped short, his clothes are neat and his house is clean. Behind him, his desk sits patiently against the wall. Previous cases are filed neatly within its drawers, with pending ones stacked on its corner. He reaches for one of the thick files and drops it on the table. At the top of a stack of scribbled notes and faxes, Hao Duc Nguyen, 30, smiles smugly from a Xeroxed copy of his passport photo. Two years ago, Nguyen and his cronies organized a multimillion-dollar heist on a San Jose computer chip warehouse. He’s apprehended by police but manages to post his $100,000 bail and disappears. Since then, he’s been chased by Badong all over the world, from Oklahoma to Vietnam. "I’ve been working with the FBI on this one," Badong says. "They want this guy bad. Apparently he’s part of a major crime syndicate. Real dangerous." How much will Badong pocket when he catches him? $50,000. Unlike the Brackney-Foote incident in Phoenix, Badong was granted an extension on Nguyen’s bond by the court. The incident sheds light on the fact there is no formal licensing required of bounty hunters. Once issued an official copy of the bond, anyone can play bounty hunter and hunt down an individual. The copy empowers the holder to arrest the person named in the bond, just as a police officer can. As a bail agent for Zig Zag Bail Bonds in Marin, Matt Ramsey assigns such power. But he doesn’t hire just anyone to be his bounty hunter. "Sure, I could hire some thug to go after my skips," he says from the telephone at his desk. "But I’d be an idiot because there’s so much liability involved. The second something goes wrong, I could be sued for millions of dollars." Ramsey only works with licensed bounty hunters, most of whom have law enforcement or military backgrounds. A license shows Ramsey that the potential bounty hunter has a certain amount of experience and can be trusted to be responsible with his company’s liability. "Licensing isn’t required by the state, it’s required within the industry," he adds. "Nobody’s going to hire some maverick because of the liability involved." The California Association of Licensed Investigators issues such licenses. According to Executive Director Sharon Hilke, potential licensees must accumulate 6,000 hours of experience (roughly three years, usually earned as a police officer), pass a background check and pass a written test issued by the State Department of Consumer Affairs before they’re granted a license. CALI has more than 1,700 members and Hilke says California has the most stringent licensing requirements of any state in the United States. When making arrests, bounty hunters are bound to the same laws that apply to police officers. Although Badong often carries a gun while recovering fugitives, he’s never had to use it. "You can usually talk them into surrendering. Sometimes you have to use force to get control of the situation, and then you can explain things to them," Badong says. Force includes handcuffing and getting them into his car. "Usually they’re happy I’m not the cops." Ironically, among criminals there’s a certain amount of respect for the bounty-hunter profession. "When I have to drive out of state to go get someone, I’m committing myself to several hours in a car with them," he adds. "We’ll chat, stop somewhere along the way, I’ll buy them dinner, treat them all right. I’d never be afraid to meet anyone I’ve picked up in a dark alley." Badong recovers about 40 skips a year, varying in bonds. His fee ranges from 10 to 20 percent of the original bond, and as the 180 days tick away, Badong’s fee rises. "I was first attracted to this job by the money," Badong confesses without revealing his yearly income. He estimates a bounty hunter can make anywhere from $60, 000 to $100,000 a year. "After the money, it was the nature of the job, the excitement, that brought me to it. I just can’t sit down at a desk that long." The incident in Phoenix casts a negative light on reputable bounty hunters like Badong. Still, after two weeks of police investigation, Brackney’s story is thrown out and he and his gang are charged with first degree murder. Badong knew they weren’t bounty hunters from the start. "You don’t go into a home with masks and rope," he says. "A neighbor is going to see you and call the police. That’s a good way to get yourself shot." While Badong doesn’t plan to get shot any time soon, the question remains: Just how long can he continue to be a bounty hunter? He’s not worried about it. "Just as long as there are criminals skipping bail." |ISSUE
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