6A • THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
FROM THE FRONT
TUESDAY,DEC.4,2001
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Michelle Hattimer, a bondsman with ABC Bonding, receives a call from a client after leaving the Douglas County Courthouse. Hattimer keeps her cell phone turned on and with her at all times to make sure she doesn't miss a potential client.
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A relationship begins to develop between the bondsmen and the criminals when the same bondsman bails out the same person.
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Both Fields and Hattimer said many clients were repeat offenders.
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If Hattimer is bonding a repeat offender, she sometimes lets them pay the fee in installments because she knows she'll get her money.
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money. Fields said he rarely let people pay in installments because he wasn't backed by an insurance company as Hattimer was.
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If Hattimer's client doesn't show up for court and she is forced to pay the face value of the bond, her insurance company, American Surety Insurance, pays 55 percent, leaving her responsible for 45 percent. The drawback is that Hattimer makes only 4.5 percent of the face value of the bond, while Fields gets to take home the full 10 percent. He makes more money at the end of the day, but he faces a greater risk of losing money.
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Fields said he would take those bonds, but he charges a $50 minimum fee for his service.
Sometimes, accused criminals will pay the bonding fee, get out of jail and skip town to avoid going to court.
greatest list of hobbies Because Hattimer makes only 4.5 percent on each bond she posts, she tends to pass on people who are arrested for things such as failure to appear, failure to comply or driving under the influence because the bail for those offenses typically ranges from $100 to $250.
"I usually don't bond too many students. I won't make enough to make the drive from Oskaloosa worthwhile," Hattimer said.
Hattimer said most of her clients who jump bail are in jail on minor offenses.
"What's really bad is that people don't skip on the big bonds because you have collateral. You get their house; you get their grandmother's house; you get anything you can get. If you can't, they don't get the bond," she said.
"People jump bail all the time," Fields said. "We have at least two or three a week."
Because a bondsman's income is his bonding fee, Fields and Hattimer are dead set on getting all their money.
"I hound you to death till I get my money back,"she said about bail jumpers.
To do this, bondsmen slip into the role of a bounty hunter, setting out to track down and bring to court runaway clients who either jumped bail or failed to pay the total bond fee on time.
Kansas law gives bondsmen special powers to apprehend bail jumpers. They can carry weapons, as long as the weapon is registered and not concealed, and the law allows a bondsman to use reasonable means to make an arrest, including breaking and entering a fugitive's home or using a weapon to restrain someone.
Hattier carries handcuffs,
but refuses to carry a gun or knife.
Fields said he sometimes carried a gun in his vehicle, in case he had to take a client back into custody. On the hunt
Hattimer and Fields spend several hours a week chasing down bail jumpers, but say that sometimes finding
people is easy.
people is easy.
"I'll be driving down the street and see someone I'm looking for, so I will stop and get them." Fields said. "I've pulled people out of closets and out from under beds. My favorite is when people try to tell us they are someone else, and that I have the wrong guy."
Hattimer said one time she bonded two cellmates out, and one later jumped bond. She was able to find him when his cellmate, Andre, called to let her know that the bail-jumper was in Topeka. Andre knew he was in Topeka because Andre was supposed to go to his house to help him sort through the clothes he had just shoplifted. Hattimer said.
"You have to remember they're going to come home sometime," Hattimer said. "They have to come home."
"I told Andre to just keep him there, I was on my way," she said.
While chasing runaway fugitives might seem dangerous, neither Hattimer nor Fields has been injured doing it.
Sometimes the hunt can take days or weeks, especially if phone numbers are disconnected or people are out of town.
"Really, you're not in danger," said Hattimer, who stands about five-foot-six. "I'm not going to go to some guy's house by myself. I'm going to take a couple people with me. I'm not stupid enough to arrest somebody by myself. I know I can't wrestle somebody to the ground. I value my life more than that. That's why I call the police."
Fields, with a 6-2 frame and broad shoulders, said he preferred to look for people on his own "because it's more fun."
Fields hesitates to call police because in his eyes the relationship between police officers and bail bondsmen is not always a positive one.
"They just screw with you." Fields said about police. "They try to harass you, typically because you're taking people out of jail that they worked hard to put there."
The jail has a list of bondsmen registered in the county on the wall next to the phone so people who have been arrested can call a bondsman from the jail booking room.
Fields said at times his name remained on the bottom of the Douglas County Jail's bondsmen list, instead of being rotated every month.
Lt. Kari Wempe of the Douglas County Sheriff's Office, who works in the booking department at the jail, said, "We absolutely do not recommend any bail bondsman over another. It's not allowed."
She said the list rotated every month, so all bondsmen got their chance to be listed first.
chance to be on top." Hattimer said. "Your calls increase like crazy."
First encounters
Unless the bondsman and the accused criminal have a previous working relationship, the first time the two meet is in the booking lobby of the jail, which has the atmosphere of an airport waiting area. Chairs are lined in rows, and a television set entertains those waiting. On the wall is a pay-
where prisoners can make collect calls to a bondsman, lawyer or loved one. On one wall is a door that leads to a small windowless room where the bondsman interviews the accused. A glass barrier divides the table with the bondsman on one side asking the prisoner questions that will determine whether the accused gets bailed out or has to remain in jail.
'It's like a game of 20 questions,' Hattier said.
"They're really impatient. They wanted out yesterday," she said. Hattimer questions her potential clients about everything: Where do they work, how long have they worked there, do they live in Lawrence and for how long, do their parents live here, what do they do for a living?
She's looking for clues that will let her know she will get her money.
phone
In the end, she said, "It's all about trust. If I don't trust you, I'm not going to bond you."
"Then we sit and wait for the cosigner. Nobody leaves the jail until I get some money." Hattimer said.
If she decides she can trust the pair of eyes staring across the table into hers, she writes the appearance and hands it to the jailers.
"We've had people waiting more than six hours," Wempsaid.
Once the money for the bondsman arrives, everyone is free to go, to meet again in court — or so the bondsman hopes.
The addiction
Despite their unsavory clientele, bondsmen love their profession.
Hattimer said she had become so addicted to the job that she even slept with her cell phone — so she wouldn't miss a call.
"Sometimes I'm just so tired that I want to turn it off, but then I think 'What if I miss the big one,' and I just have to leave it on," she said.
Hattimer said she didn't even shut her phone off the day her father died.
Hattimer said that in her profession, work came first.
"The day he died I had a couple of $3,000 bonds," she said. "I couldn't turn those down."
"I always tell my kids that it doesn't matter if we're eating Thanksgiving dinner," she said. "If that phone rings and it's a big bond, I'm going. We can eat when I get home."
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