Don?t call them bounty hunters. Just those two words conjure up images of rogue spaghetti Western desperadoes on the prowl with “Wanted: Dead or Alive” posters stuffed in their pockets. Rather, Dennis Sew and his team are bail bondsmen who are paid by an employer to bring bail-jumping bad guys to justice. So what?s it like to spend your workday rounding up outlaws? Is it at all like Duane ?Dog? Chapman and his gang of reality-show tough guys? Examiner Staff Writer Luke Broadwater wanted to know. Here is his report.
It?s just before 7 on a hot July morning, and Dennis Sew is ready. Standing in a parking lot near City Hall, the imposing 220-pound bail bondsman straps on his bulletproof vest.
“Sometimes, it?s a game of hide-and-seek,” he says. “But if you jump bail on us, we?re going to find you and bring you back.”
Sew dislikes the name bounty hunter. That phrase, he says, is reserved for freelance loners who track down fugitives too far away or too insignificant for him to worry about. He is a professional bail bondsman. He hunts down these punks every day.
The target for this particular hunt is one Mark Bynum, 29, a convicted drug dealer who?s wanted on two warrants, including skipping a Baltimore County District Court date on assault charges.
Bynum is one of 208 people already this year who have skipped court after the Fred W. Frank Bail Bonds Co. helped post their bail. For them, it was a “get out of jail free” card.
Sew, 44, and his veteran crew of bond collectors ? Scott Williams, 35, a former Baltimore City sheriff?s deputy, and Bob Schmelz, 59, a former Baltimore City police officer ? have tracked down 177 of those bail jumpers, cuffed them and put them behind bars. Williams and Schmelz, both 200-plus pounds, know how to throw their weight around.
Day in and day out, Sew?s crew helps Baltimore police as they try to eliminate nearly 22,000 open warrants for arrest, including those for assault, robbery, rape and murder. That?s 22,000 people who should be behind bars but who are out on the street.
Sew studies Bynum?s picture.
He passes the mug shot to Williams, who shows it to Schmelz. They want to make sure they don?t cuff the wrong guy. “Don?t try this on an empty stomach,” Schmelz says as he slides into Sew?s sport utility vehicle, and the trio begins heading north to the Baltimore County line.
They?re looking for Bynum at his listed address on the 6000 block of Marjeff Place, which they think is in the Nottingham neighborhood. But there is no 6000 block of Marjeff Place.
“This guy is pretty smart,” Williams says. “He put the wrong address on all the court papers.”
But his lie wasn?t too big. They figure out his apartment is on the 4000 block. Turns out Bynum changed only one digit on what was otherwise an accurate address.
“The hardest part of the job is finding out where the hell they are,” Sew says.
They arrive at Bynum?s apartment complex at 7:39 a.m.
The three men are out of the car quickly and quietly. They move into an apartment stairwell and up the steps at a surprising speed for men of their age and weight.
Sew positions himself at the bottom of the stairwell, where he can keep the situation in full view. He calls the apartment phone.
“No answer,” he says. “Do it.”
At the command, Williams and Schmelz begin relentlessly banging on the apartment door.
“Time to wake up!” Schmelz shouts. “Electric leak. There?s an electric leak! Wake up!”
Nothing.
No response.
Just quiet.
Schmelz turns to Sew.
“There?s either nobody here, or they?re more clever than we are,” he says.
They leave the apartment. Sew looks at me, the reporter.
“You?re bad luck,” he says.
YOU CAN RUN, BUT YOU CAN?T HIDE
On an earlier trip in May with The Examiner, Sew?s luck was running high.
The team was looking for Garnell Fulton, 28, who was wanted on a burglary charge in Howard County Circuit Court.
Their search for Fulton brought the bondsmen to the 1500 block of Pennsylvania Avenue in Baltimore, where Fulton?s girlfriend swore he wasn?t home.
“I ain?t seen him,” she said. “He ain?t here. He knows you lookin? for him.”
Sew was convinced at first. But he sensed something amiss in her voice. She was a little too nervous. She was walking around a bit too much.
Williams and Schmelz kept looking around the house despite the woman?s denials.
They searched upstairs and downstairs, in every possible room. Then Williams opened a cabinet under the sink.
Jackpot.
“What? He?s there?” Sew asked.
Sure enough, Fulton was in his underwear, hiding out.
They let him get dressed. They treated him with respect. They took him in.
“You treat him like any other person,” Sew said. “You treat him how you?d like to be treated.”
A NEW TARGET
But that was then. Sew knows you can?t live in the past. A bail bondsman is only as good as his last arrest.
As they leave Bynum?s apartment, Sew calls the fugitive?s girlfriend, who posted Bynum?s bail and who gets stuck with the bill if he doesn?t show for court.
“Does he sell drugs anywhere, ma?am?” he asks, refusing to give up. “Don?t worry. I?ll arrest him, but I need to find him.”
But before the search for Bynum continues, there?s another target for the morning.
His name is Laron Jackson. He?s 22, and he?s wanted on suspicion of violating his probation, stemming from an assault charge in Anne Arundel County District Court.
He told court officials he lives on the 500 block of Milton Avenue in East Baltimore.
While suspicious neighbors eye the SUV, Sew parks across the street from Jackson?s address.
Williams hurries around to the back alley to prevent escape, while Sew and Schmelz wait out front for the former sheriff?s deputy to get in position.
But as they surround the row house, an agitated, shirtless man with a nipple ring and tattoos appears at the front door.
“I?ll let y?all in,” he says. “What?d you want?”
In a calm voice, Sew says they are there because Jackson skipped his court date and needs to be arrested.
The man is annoyed.
“I don?t even know what you?re talking about,” he says. “I haven?t even seen him. I don?t know if he?s ever been here.”
Inside the house, another man, who is holding back a pit bull with a leash, says Jackson used to sleep on the living room couch.
“We have nothing to do with him,” the man with the pit bull says. “Laron left weeks ago.”
The tattooed man looks even more annoyed at this admission.
“What are you talking to him for?” he asks Sew, sounding exasperated. “This is my house.”
The bail bondsmen ask whether they can search the basement and upstairs. The tattooed man allows this but wants to accompany them as they look around.
Finding nothing, the bail bondsmen leave, empty-handed again.
“Somebody?s living in my house, and I don?t know jack?” Sew asks incredulously. “Nobody knows him. Nobody knows anything.”
The frustration is palpable. But what can they do?
So, for the day, Sew is left to recount old war stories.
Like Fulton?s arrest. Or the time in 2005 when he locked up the elusive Orlando James, exactly nine years, 11 months and 28 days after he skipped bail. Wanted on a drug charge, James left the country for seven years. But eventually he slipped up ? he came back.
“We finally got him,” Sew says.
The men talk about the state of crime in Baltimore, how former Police Commissioner Leonard Hamm was forced out by Mayor Sheila Dixon.
Schmelz knows and likes Hamm. They worked together. His resignation as police chief was a raw deal, Schmelz says.
“He never got to run the department,” he says.
But they know the crime problem, which this year includes a 19 percent spike in homicides and 36 percent increase in shootings, is the reason they have jobs.
“It?s job security,” Sew says. “In Baltimore, there?s always someone who needs to be locked up.”
Back in the parking lot near City Hall, the bail bondsman takes off his bulletproof vest.
It?s time to do the other part of his job ? signing bail contracts for recently arrested people who want to get out of jail.
A smirk crosses his face.
“You know,” he says, “they?re innocent until proven guilty, right?”
Editor?s note: Mark Bynum turned himself in to authorities six days after Williams and Schmelz beat on his apartment door. Laron Jackson is still at large.
