Names and locations have been changed to protect people’s privacy.

I. The Thin Gray Line

Slim Manila Folders

Our fugitive had no legs. He had a patchy beard, a decent scowl, and a court-issued FTA (“Failure to Appear”) arrest warrant stemming from a previous felony charge of “Assault and Battery [of a] Firefighter.” But no legs. There was nary a mention of this in the bondsman’s slim manila folder—just the original bond agreement with none of the fugitive’s details filled out, the arrest warrant, and a mugshot. Instead, this vital piece of intel about Joe Jr. was volunteered by a neighbor of his.

Me and Dodson had been on the case all day. Whenever one of these skips fails to show up in court, the bail bondsman calls us to find them. Or, more likely, calls one of our better-qualified competitors. We’d only been certified bounty hunters for all of three weeks.

The late-summer heat of Virginia’s Tidewater region soaked through our body armor as we went door-to-door in Joe Jr.’s neighborhood, like a pair of tactical salesmen. We carried with us an assortment of pepper sprays, handcuffs, and one projectile taser. Around my neck, I wore a shiny metal badge engraved with the words Bail Enforcement Agent. Joe Jr.’s neighbor took one look at us and assumed we were something legit. She pointed to Joe Jr.'s house, told us about his lack of legs, and added: “He likes to drink.”

Joe Jr.’s father answered the door. Joe Sr. grouchily claimed that he had no idea where Joe Jr. was. It was mentioned that because of the paperwork in Dodson’s hand—paperwork signed by Joe Sr.—we could legally search his house. We would like to search the house, we said. Just to be sure. Also, just for practice. That went unsaid. Joe Sr. did not take the request well.

“You aren’t coming in my house,” he said, furthering his point by marching inside and calling the cops. The officer who arrived didn’t even bother getting out of his patrol car. He seemed neither the least bit surprised nor concerned by the sight of two young men in streetwear and body armor. Local police apparently knew the Joe family well.

We showed the officer our file. “Oh, nice,” he deadpanned, after being told of the assault charge. The problem with Joe Jr., he said, wasn’t the drinking. The problem was his prosthetics. Whenever Joe Jr. got to fighting, he’d unlash the hard plastic limbs and wield them like cudgels. According to the officer, civil servants and emergency personnel weren’t allowed to keep him separated from the deadly weapons for any length of time since, legally speaking, they were a part of his body.

By the time a second officer approached, Joe Sr. was on his front lawn, screaming in my face. The police stood just a few feet away, silently assessing the situation as I tried various sales tactics. Joe Sr. wouldn’t budge. In a whisper session, the officers said that they couldn’t provide direct assistance in searching the premises. But, they shrugged, if Joe Sr. used his considerable weight to physically assault one of us upon entry…well, then they could turn it into a police matter. Legally speaking. Eventually, one officer asked if me and Dodson couldn’t follow other leads for the time being.

It was a couple of weeks later when we made another pass at the house. Same square dance—a grunt, a call, a shrug. We expanded our search to bars within shambling distance of the family residence. At one, an intoxicated Joe Jr. allegedly slammed a hollow limb on the countertop and insisted it be filled knee-high with booze like an improvised bierstiefel. The bar exercised its right to refuse service, permanently. One of the few neighborhood establishments where Joe Jr. hadn’t worn out his welcome was a topless joint.