The Lost Dogs

by Jim Gorant

  Gill didn’t even have any idea what the rehabilitation options were, but he wanted to know. Merck suggested he speak with Dr. Stephen Zawistowski, the ASPCA’s top behavior expert. At fifty-two Zawistowski, known universally as Steve Z or Dr. Z, was stout with white hair, a bushy white beard and mustache, rimless glasses, and apple cheeks. Affable and avuncular, he peppered his speech with thoughtful tugs at his facial hair and spiced up his outfits with ties that had flying doghouses and cat prints on them. He was the animal rescue world’s Santa Claus. Santa Claws, maybe.

  With a Ph.D. in behavior genetics and a specialty in animal psychology, Dr. Z could bring the combination of science and compassion that Gill sought. In twenty years at the ASPCA Dr. Z had tackled everything from pet overpopulation to issues of behavior and welfare. During that period he’d risen from vice president of education to executive vice president of national programs and science advisor. The twenty books he either authored or edited included a history of the ASPCA, and he was fond of telling tales of the organization’s flamboyant founder, Henry Bergh, who got his start breaking up illegal dogfighting and bear-baiting exhibitions in lower Manhattan in the 1870s.

  Gill first approached Dr. Z in early July about other possible outcomes for the dogs. Dr. Z said there was some chance that a few of the dogs could be salvaged, but there was no way to know without meeting them face-to-face. It was possible, he suggested, to put together a panel of experts to individually evaluate each dog and make suggestions about what should become of them.

  Even as Gill plotted a course for the live dogs, Melinda Merck continued to focus on the dead ones. Within a week of receiving the bodies, she gave Gill a preliminary report of her findings. It was good news. Most of what she found backed up Brownie’s account. The insect evidence—the fly larvae, the maggots, the flies themselves—indicated that the dogs had been in the ground for about two months. Almost every dog had little puncture marks or scoring on the bones, especially on their legs and faces, that indicated they had been bitten by other dogs. Based on the depth of the markings, the other dogs had most likely been pit bulls. Even more damning were the preponderance of facial fractures, which almost always resulted from fighting. And a few of the dogs had broken necks, which suggested hanging.

  But it went beyond that, too. There were broken legs and vertebrae, some severe bone bruising. Most of the dogs, seven out of nine, had skull fractures, at least one of which appeared to be the result of a blow from a hammer. Brownie had reported that he’d once seen a Bad Newz member kill a dog by beating it with a shovel. Vick and friends had not simply eliminated these dogs with a cold efficiency, they’d beaten them first. The revelation added another layer of brutality to the already nasty case.

  And then there was one last body that stood out from the rest. It had signs of bruising on all four ankles and all along one side. Its skull was fractured in two places and it had four broken vertebrae. Brownie had said that all of the dogs that didn’t die from being hanged were drowned, except one.

  As that dog lay on the ground fighting for air, Quanis Phillips grabbed its front legs and Michael Vick grabbed its hind legs. They swung the dog over their head like a jump rope then slammed it to the ground. The first impact didn’t kill it. So Phillips and Vick slammed it again. The two men kept at it, alternating back and forth, pounding the creature against the ground, until at last, the little red dog was dead.

  Most federal indictments are one or two pages long, giving the names of the accused, the crimes they’re being charged with, and little else. On July 17 a federal grand jury heard testimony from Brownie and Oscar Allen, read the affidavits of the imprisoned drug dealers who’d fought dogs with Vick, and heard Melinda Merck’s findings. When Mike Gill was done, the jury accepted an eighteen-page indictment against the four founding members of Bad Newz Kennels. It was part of a carefully planned approach to bring the case to a quick and just end.

  The document, known as a walking indictment, laid out the actions and offenses of the accused in painful detail. As much as it was meant to ensure a charge, it was also intended to send a message to the defense: We have a lot of information from multiple sources and we’re not afraid to spell it all out for the jury and the public.

  The reaction was swift. Protests sprung up outside the offices of the NFL, the Atlanta Falcons, and Nike. Nike suspended the introduction of a new Michael Vick footwear line and Falcons owner Arthur Blank called a press conference at which he deemed Vick’s actions horrific. Reebok stopped selling Vick jerseys and Upper Deck removed all Vickrelated products from its Web site.

  Nine days after the indictment there was a line outside the federal courthouse in Richmond as both protesters and supporters waited to get a seat at the arraignment. For the first time in longer than anyone could remember the court had to funnel onlookers into overflow rooms where they could watch the proceedings live on closed-circuit TV. Those who didn’t make it inside lined the streets outside, chanting and carrying signs.

  All four of the accused—Michael Vick, Purnell Peace, Quanis Phillips, and Tony Taylor—pled not guilty to the charges: conspiracy to travel in interstate commerce in aid of unlawful activities and sponsoring a dog in an animal fighting venture. For the first time since late April, when he denied ever being at the house, Vick spoke:

  Today in court I pleaded innocent to the allegations made against me. I take the charges very seriously, and I look forward to clearing my good name. I respectfully ask all of you to hold your judgment until all of the facts are shown. Above all, I’d like to say to my mom I’m sorry for what she has had to go through in this most trying of times. It has caused pain to my family and I apologize to my family.

  That sounded good but it had little bearing on reality. Legally, Vick had only one hope of “clearing his good name.” He needed the other three guys to tell the same story and stick to it. But any dreams of a united front were soon quashed.

  Gill and his associates had never stopped negotiating with Tony Taylor’s lawyer and on July 30, less than two weeks after the indictment, Taylor pled guilty and agreed to cooperate with the investigation. He sat for an extensive interview and then signed a thirteen-page summary of facts in which he detailed the Bad Newz operation, including many of the fights the group hosted and traveled to.

  He admitted to the original plan to start the operation, buying the dogs, and having the sheds, the kennel, and eventually the house built. Organizing the fights and training the dogs. Handling the dogs in the ring and placing bets. Killing dogs. The most damning part of Taylor’s confession was not where he detailed his own role, but where he laid out Vick’s participation. The star quarterback had not only bankrolled the operation, he’d become involved in running it. On numerous occasions when the group tested dogs, Vick was present. He attended fights and bet large sums of money, although he never kept any of the winnings.

  The pressure on the remaining three defendants increased dramatically. Lawyers for Peace and Phillips reached out about deals for their clients. They were willing to accept a plea bargain but they didn’t want jail time. They had a point. Although the maximum sentence for the crimes they had been accused of was five years, the government’s official sentencing guidelines, based on factors that included criminal history and cooperation with the prosecution, called for zero to six months in jail. And even with previous records it was not unreasonable to think they could avoid being locked up.

  But that didn’t work for Gill. He felt all four men needed to serve time. The negotiations dragged on, until finally on August 17 Peace and Phillips pled guilty, accepted a recommended sentence of twelve to eighteen months, and agreed to testify against Vick. In his post-plea interview, Peace stated that on several occasions he proposed giving away dogs that refused to fight, but Vick had vetoed the suggestion, insisting that the dogs be killed.

  Now, only one month after he was officially indicted, Vick was on an island, with an ocean of federally accumulated evidence surrounding him and all three of
his former partners implicating him. Still, he appeared determined to go to trial. Perhaps he felt he had too much to lose to give up, but little did he know that Gill had saved one last piece of ammo. In mid-August he let Vick’s attorneys look at a photo that he had acquired. It showed Vick, Peace, Phillips, and Taylor at a dogfight wearing headbands and T-shirts that read Bad Newz Kennels and holding Jane, their grand champion fighter.

  Vick’s lawyers knew the impact the photo would have, not just in the courtroom but on TV and in newspapers and magazines around the country. Gill also added pressure by making it known that if the case went forward he’d seek additional charges, including racketeering and tax evasion, crimes that carried even stiffer penalties.

  On August 23, Michael Vick signed his plea deal, admitting his guilt and agreeing to pay $928,000 in restitution for the care of the dogs, including any that were deemed worthy of saving after a government team had evaluated them.

  Vick submitted the plea to District Court Judge Henry E. Hudson, a hard-line conservative known for meting out harsh sentences and also a dog lover who had a bichon frise at home. Vick appeared before the judge in a plea hearing on August 27. Hudson asked, “Are you entering the plea of guilty to a conspiracy charge because you are in fact guilty?”

  Vick replied, “Yes, sir.”

  “I totally ask for forgiveness and understanding,” Vick said afterward. “I take full responsibility for my actions. I made a mistake in using bad judgment and making bad decisions. Dogfighting is a terrible thing.” The NFL suspended him indefinitely without pay and Nike terminated his contract.

  It was in many ways a stunning moment. It had been less than four months since the initial raid at 1915 Moonlight Road and less than three months since the federal government moved to act on the case. The two lead investigators had overcome indifference or outright hostility from their managers, the U.S. attorney had agreed to take on a case that many others might have deemed too messy and uncertain, and for possibly the first time in a legal setting, dogs were viewed not as the implements of a harsh and brutal undertaking but as the victims of it.

  Now, if only a few of them could be spared.

  PART 2

  RECLAMATION

  September 1, 2007, to December 25, 2007

  16

  DONNA REY NOLDS AND TIM Racer had never been so happy to end a vacation early. It was September 2, the Sunday of Labor Day weekend and just days after Michael Vick’s plea hearing, when Reynolds and Racer packed up their stuff and walked out of the house they’d rented in Stinson Beach, California. They would have loved to stay, but they were off to bigger things.

  The next day they caught a flight to Richmond, where they would gather with seven other canine experts brought together to evaluate the Vick dogs. Six of the nine people on the panel worked for the ASPCA, and those who weren’t Ph.D.s were at the very least certified animal behaviorists. Reynolds and Racer came from a different place altogether.

  They were artists by trade, and they dressed the part. Racer, thin and athletic, tended toward cargo shorts with work boots and loose T-shirts. With brown hair and a broad face centered by a flat nose, Racer spoke directly with plenty of eye contact and so fast that “pit bull” became not two distinct words but one hybrid: “pitble.” Reynolds, by contrast, faced the world with a high wall of curly hair, full cheeks, and a big smile, but always seemed to be saying less than she was thinking, a sensation heightened by her arching eyebrows and deep, wary eyes. She accented her outfits with funky add-ons: a necklace made of red dice, laceless Chuck Taylors, or black military-looking boots.

  Michigan natives, the pair met in 1980, during their first week of classes at the College for Creative Studies in Detroit. Upon graduation they moved to Chicago where they rented a small studio. Racer, a wood carver, began working on carousel-style animals, posed figures done in the seamless, high-gloss style of merry-go-round horses. Reynolds made her career as a found-art illustrator, creating collages and pictures out of existing materials, which she sold to magazines.

  They began rescuing dogs off the streets—bringing home strays, training them and then finding them homes. Over four years they established themselves as working artists, took in and found homes for dozens of dogs, and enjoyed the benefits of big-city life. But they grew weary of the cold weather, so in 1991 they packed up and headed for Berkeley, figuring the funky college town with a large arts community would be perfect for them. It was not. Somehow, they never felt comfortable there and migrated toward Oakland, which fit better. It was grittier and simpler, more diverse. It was like Detroit, but nicer.

  Their self-employed status allowed them to set their own schedule—i. e., go in late and stay late—and they began using part of their days to work with a raptor rescue program at the Lindsay Wildlife Museum in Walnut Creek, California. There they helped injured or lost owls, hawks, eagles, and falcons relearn how to fly or walk or hunt.

  They continued to take in dogs, too, and in 1995 they got a call from a woman who knew they helped strays. She had been driving her car along the highway one night when she saw an injured dog on the side of the road. She pulled over and realized it was in even worse shape than she suspected. The animal clearly needed more help than she could give it and she wasn’t sure what to do. After a moment of thought she swung open the back door and said, “If it gets in the car, I’ll help it. If not . . .” The dog crawled into the backseat and collapsed.

  She took it to a shelter and implored Reynolds and Racer to go get it. When they went to see it, they cringed as the shelter workers brought out a small male pit bull, maybe thirty-five pounds, black and covered with cuts and scars. Tubes and wires ran from the dog’s body and wherever it went someone had to walk behind it, rolling the IV stand that it was hooked up to. “It looks like someone wrapped him in barbed wire and rolled him down a hill,” Reynolds said.

  On one side, the dog’s lip was just sort of hanging off. “His face is like hamburger,” added Racer. And yet, upon walking in, the dog seemed to smile at them. It went up to Racer and began rubbing against his legs.

  “Race, we’re in trouble here,” Reynolds said. The couple took the dog in. They called him Mr. B, and they worked hard to nurse him back to health. Reynolds hit the Internet. On one pit bull message board she encountered a character called Old Dog. On the board he had always come off as a bit of an asshole the way Reynolds saw it. But he knew his stuff and when Reynolds described her situation, he offered to help.

  Reynolds was willing to take assistance from whoever would give it because there was more at stake than simply the survival of the dog. The woman who had picked him up off the road was in the midst of a battle against cancer, and she was coming to see the dog’s survival as a metaphor for her own struggle. It became very important to her that the dog make it, and she took a keen interest in his progress.

  Eventually, Reynolds took Mr. B to see Old Dog, who turned out to be a legitimate dog breeder and a bit of a cowboy from central California. Old Dog agreed to take Mr. B in and give him a foster home until the dog could be adopted. Before long he’d adopted Mr. B himself, but even more important, he became a trusted resource.

  Reynolds and Racer needed all the friends they could get, because the following year, 1996, they bought their first house. It became much easier for them to take in foster dogs until they could find a permanent keeper. Their experience with Mr. B had given them a taste of how desperate things were for pit bulls, which made up the majority of the shelter population nationally as well as in the Bay Area.

  Through the years they had rescued whatever dogs they had stumbled upon, but now Racer proposed that they actually begin going to shelters to seek out adoption-worthy pit bulls. Reynolds had misgivings, but she agreed to take a look. At the first shelter they went to they found a beautiful brown and white pit bull. They were sure they could help her, so they brought her home and called her Sallie. She was an incredible dog—even-tempered, loving, and totally friendly with the other two dogs
the couple already had.

  Most people have been led to believe that pit bulls are mindless attack machines, and while they can have an inclination to be aggressive toward other dogs, the reality is that free of negative influences, they’re not much different from any other breed. Reynolds and Racer had come to see that, but that knowledge didn’t help them solve the problem they now faced: They could not find a home for Sallie. It was then that Reynolds and Racer realized how off-base and yet deeply ingrained the public perception of pit bulls remained. Racer and Reynolds suddenly understood why there were so many pit bulls languishing in shelters.

  Before long they were part of a small community in the Bay Area dedicated to rescuing pit bulls. One night while a bunch of them were out together, they decided to start a Web site that would display available dogs and try to help change the pit bull’s image. So on April Fool’s Day 1999—“under the influence of many margaritas,” as Reynolds says—they formed a rescue group called Bay Area Doglovers Responsible About Pitbulls or BAD RAP.

  The site went up a few weeks later and within days Reynolds realized they had tapped into something much bigger than they’d ever imagined. They had hundreds of inquiries from all over the country; people were looking for information on pit bulls. How to train them, what to feed them, how much exercise they needed. There were people looking to place dogs and people looking to adopt dogs.

  Reynolds and Racer gave up their work with birds of prey and focused on pit bulls. They were uniquely prepared for the task of taking shelter dogs, teaching them some manners, and then finding them homes. Over the years they had taken in, nursed, and trained dozens of dogs, culminating with Mr. B, who made all the others look easy. The raptor rescue had helped, too—anyone who can get a wild eagle to literally eat out of his hand can probably get a pit bull to walk nicely on a leash.