Why do cops hate bounty hunters

The mimicked sounds of yips and woofs began to echo. An intruder warning. Que gestured tactically. We fell back to the vehicle, drove around the perimeter, and came in from the west, where a group of young males loitered. Que flanked one side. He sprinted, they scattered. I went around a building to intercept. Came back around to the sound of muffled cries.

Que had chased someone into an apartment, while identifying himself and the individual he was actually pursuing. I had an instant of panic near the threshold about what might happen next. Join him or freeze? Protect Dodson. But Que exited, his sidearm holstered. A male occupant followed him out the door, sputtering panicked protests. Dodson appeared. Caught up in the moment, he switched on. Que continued with a more formal interrogation.

And that was that. We just left. So far, the inhabitants of Pleasant Meadows had mostly regarded us as a temporary abnormality. A nuisance, like a common cold. They were used to the law coming in for one reason or another and doing what it felt necessary.

This situation felt unstable. Que was blahzayblah. Two days passed, along with the deadline. Our first capture. We did it completely by the booklet—dull and uneventful. Muni would definitely be at a club a few blocks from Pleasant Meadows. The bondsman, or the CI—somebody—knew what car Muni was traveling in. Que had a plan. We would hunker down in our trucks beside all the vehicles at the club, then run up on Muni as he and every other partier flooded out at closing time.

It seemed like a terrible plan. For starters, this scenario had never been covered in class. I lied when he asked if I had my 9mm on me. We cocked that up, too. Well, I did. Then, while following Dodson and Que in my own truck, I went in the wrong direction. He was peeved, at both the failed snatch'n'grab, and with me.

By a. He and Dodson were waiting for the police. For reasons unclear, they had decided to start following another vehicle after I left. I arrived on the scene as Que was talking shop with an officer and commiserating over the lengthy law-enforcement-application process. Dodson stood nervously nearby, stiff as a stick. The man without fear had only two weakness. Police, too. On the streets, the relationship between public and private was pretty murky. One of the officers told Que, almost wistfully, that we saw more action than they did; all they saw was a lot of paperwork.

But they also faced a lot more danger. They did shoot cops here, bro. Thirty-nine days later, an officer would be hit multiple times roughly a thousand feet from where we stood. It seemed like a subtle suggestion, although the strobing lights made it difficult to see between the lines. Earlier that night, we even had to gather intel at a topless joint.

No one ever explained why we were back to hunting Yung Muni. Actually, the conscience was in full tactical gear and about an hour away from having a complete nervous breakdown. Thirty minutes before, at around midnight, we had stood in an empty grocery-store parking lot. Another staging area. There, Que had double-checked the loads in his shotgun.

Dodson was pumped. He told me to gear up. Dodson insisted I go strapped this time. So I did. Before getting back in my truck, I got snotty. We drove by the house party near Pleasant Meadows. A narrow, car-crowded street teeming with tough-looking inhabitants. This was a hellish game of telephone. After I mocked the nonexistent plan to raid a random house, and for reasons Que never fully explained, we aimed the vehicles toward Pleasant Meadows proper and debated whether we should do a sweep of the area.

By this point, we were chasing ghosts. We parked our trucks at the border of Pleasant Meadows and waited while Dodson crossed over on foot, undetected. Que prodded us about what we should do, but it was Dodson who finally made the call. Once again, we penetrated from the eastern border of Pleasant Meadows.

A warm stillness. Que had his shotgun at low ready position. Then a rustling. From the opposite distance, I thought I saw Dodson run after a red-colored figure and took off in a sprint. Dodson thought he saw me run after a red-colored figure and he took off in a sprint. We sprinted into each other around a cut and frantically searched the spot.

Que had already finished his pat down by the time me and Dodson came huffing back. The handsome figure wore a red tracksuit. Dodson switched on and went ham. They were both sweating. I let out an audible, and involuntary, snort. Wrong guy. We stumbled around the area. Dodson wondered aloud about his Daredevil hat, which had flown off somewhere in the cuts. We rounded the corner of one building, and Que confronted a woman holding a cellphone.

He wanted to know what she was hiding. Then she began yelling into her phone. The shrieks followed us as we fell back, or retreated. We were completely turned around.

I felt an overwhelming fear of annihilation; of being wiped gone by some natural and inevitable correction, like fever. I almost walked away right there, on principle, and was saved from good intentions by the sight of my truck in the distance. I managed to shut the cab door before completely losing it. Fuck your hat, Dodson.

Fuck you, Que. I was alone. I wrenched off the gear and threw it wherever. I was done chasing our skip. He could stay free for all I cared. Fuck all this shit. I burned through three or four cigarettes and drove off with a holstered firearm digging into my gut.

There's no Employee Orientation Seminar in bounty hunting. Just get a license and figure out the rest. That's how I started my very first day on the job. His name was Dave. Poor folks and minorities were hard to read but always knew what was up. Often, middle-class white men over 40 were creepily deferential and uncomfortably chummy but rarely provided any useful information. Low-wage employees, however, they were reliably helpful. I could always see the gears working. Is this graveyard shift about to get weird?

They responded well to professionalism. But Que kept getting tips from his CIs, reported sightings. One night we converged on a motel where the clerk had made a positive ID. None of the names on the guest list matched, but we were given permission to go room-to-room.

It was well past 11 p. At each door, Que banged his flashlight, gave our no-bullshit reason for disturbing their peace, and proceeded to clear the interior, taser in hand. Most guests were compliant—we were serious-looking authority figures. There was a shag rug at the door and splashy, personalized decor inside.

The room was immaculate. It was immediately obvious to me that this woman was not harboring a druggie fugitive. She was wearing a muumuu. She swore up and down that she was a long-term resident, and she was not having any of our guff. At last, an unstoppable force had met an immovable object. Que was eventually allowed to search her room, but only after I called her by her name, gently explained the situation, and said I was always available for any questions.

Two days later, my phone rang. Some intruder had given her a business card. That was my Thursday afternoon. Most days were like that. Best business practices and public relations. Dealing with miscommunications, as professionally as possible. But sometimes, yeah, we had to just grip and grimace. I rushed to meet my partners, who were already near the location.

I have some questions for you. Can you please step out the car? The woman panicked. She sped off. He turned around to see a Dodson-shaped hood ornament body surfing ass-first through the parking lot. Dodson braced himself as the woman hit 25 mph, somehow managing to also keep ahold of the taser in his hand. It went pappap-pappappappap as he tried reaching out to shock her into compliance. To both us and the exasperated police officer who eventually arrived, the lookalike swore up and down he had no idea how to contact his lady friend.

We spent time driving around looking for the getaway car and eventually spotted the two rendezvousing behind the muumuu motel. It was a long day. And yet, the first thing Dodson did when I came to pick him up the next morning was spread his body across the front of my truck. Progress was slow going—maybe four weeks, never mind how long precisely—but we got into an ebb and flow.

Fugitives without address, vehicles, or phone numbers. One didn't even have legs. I had doubts that another, in Pleasant Meadows, even existed at all. But we did that shit professional. All it took was a quick but careful search through court records. There she was.

We called her probation officer, who promised to call us when Jane arrived for their upcoming meeting. Fifteen minutes. When she left, we tailed her for several miles. Que took the lead while I held back, ready to leapfrog if he was spotted. The receptionist was more than helpful.

Giddy almost. Second floor. Just as I rounded a corner, I heard it again. The room looked as if it had been furnished by a hurricane. Jane stood near the AC unit, spouting protests. His drawn sidearm was at low ready position.

I stood between Que, ramming the door, and Jane, moored and unmoving. Should I physically move her? Bullshit lawsuits were an occupational hazard, but so were legitimate threats to our safety. There was a lot of yelling. It all blurred together. Get out! You guys are in my room. Get your fucking hands off me! Que had had enough. He picked Jane up and hoisted her out of the room. I pulled out my collapsible compliance alternative.

I rapped it a few times on a wooden desk as I got tunnel vision yet was suddenly hyper-aware of all sensory stimuli. I took deep, conscious breaths. Some basic cognitive motor skills shut down. It was a kind of high I hadn't felt in a very long time. He was in his element. Que chuckled once more, snapped the cartridge back into place, then charged the door.

It disappeared as Que dove headfirst into darkness. By the time I got to the threshold, Que had already put himself between the bathtub and a flesh-colored mound, commanding it to get the fuck out. I flung the door onto the bed and echoed the yells of my captain. Our skip emerged, like a startled myth. He wore nothing but boxer briefs, tiny electric harpoons in his arm, and Que riding his backside. The yelling ceased. Dave dropped to his knees.

It seemed like the hard part was over. Then Dave started dry-heaving. As we picked him up, he began to shake. Then convulse. But this felt…off. That was my gut feeling. I started doubting my gut. Come on, Dave! He expertly looped an arm and carried Dave away. Jane was waiting outside the door. Threatening legal action and legitimately swearing up, down, and sideways. To be safe, we called the EMTs. Que was in control. Sassy, even. She snorted. I called Dodson the moment I could. It was his one request before hopping in the EMT wagon to escort Dave to the hospital.

I dutifully took the shotgun from his truck and put it in mine. Dave was half reclined in the hospital gurney, his torso bare, a blanket over his propped-up legs. Outside the exam room, the hospital staff seemed unsurprised by the results from a battery of tests. Three years older than me, he looked salted and overcooked. He pulled at his fingernails. Que made confident small talk. Que was fishing for leads on other, unrelated cases.

Dave was stalling and coy with what he might know. They took turns taunting one another. Both bargaining. Each hinting that the other might be full of shit. Dave nibbled at me, too. Any idea? Ryssdal: I have no idea. Where are you going with this? Dubner: All right, let me tell you. He taught me something very interesting I want you to hear. Alex Tabarrok: Twenty-five percent of defendants — felony defendants — simply fail to show up on the day of their trial. So that cost obviously gets passed on to taxpayers like you and me, and makes extra work for the cops.

So Tabarrok wanted to know, when a fugitive has to be hauled back to court, how good a job do the police do versus the private sector, you know, bounty hunters? I put on a coat and a tie and I go to court. But also, how come these bounty hunters are more successful? You see them on TV in those shows.

So I actually asked a guy named Bob Burton about this. Burton is a legendary bounty hunter who runs a big operation out of Santa Barbara.

First of all, no one in the industry acts, or rather, looks like that. Forget the long hair — you stand out. Now Kai, let me ask you this: what percent of the fugitives that the bounty hunters go after do you think that they land? Try 97 percent. The difference — as always — is in the incentives. So police officers, they earn their salary regardless of whether they round up a given fugitive. A bounty hunter only gets paid when they bring their guy back. Or you know, as Bob Burton puts it: no body, no booty.

Alex Tabarrok went out and asked one bounty hunter why bail bondsmen usually try to get a family member to co-sign the bond. Dubner: So Kai, the next time you get a wild hair and think about jumping bail, I just want you to picture your mama, all right? Ryssdal: My mother loves me. She would never turn me in.