Dachshund Through the Snow

by David Rosenfelt

  “What do you think?” she asks. It is the question from which there is no defense.

  “I’d like to talk to Billy.” Laurie knows that Billy is Billy Cameron, nickname Bulldog, who is the head of the Public Defender’s office. “He’ll tell me the straight story.”

  “About what?”

  “About Traynor’s life in the intervening years since the murder. Here’s the thing: I have no idea if he’s telling the truth or not. But he could be; it’s credible that a nineteen-year-old kid would act the way he acted. Not admirable, but credible.

  “But if he’s lived a life on the straight and narrow ever since, then that would be compelling to me. I think it’s rare that these things happen in isolation. If Noah Traynor strangled Kristen McNeil, then I doubt the incident turned him into a Boy Scout.”

  “So you’ll talk to Billy tomorrow?”

  I shake my head. “Tonight. Tomorrow I have a German shepherd to defend.”

  When we get home, I call Billy. I hope he’ll tell me that while he’s obligated to defend Noah, he’s as evil as they come. He doesn’t; he says that the limited background information they have gathered already shows the exact opposite.

  “He could use you, Andy.” While that may be true, Billy is thoroughly biased. He would like nothing better than to dump this off on me and thereby lower the workload on his exhausted staff.

  “I’ll get back to you,” I say.

  When I get off the phone, I tell Laurie about the conversation.

  “The other thing to keep in mind is what Julie said about paying your fee,” she says.

  I nod. “Somehow I don’t see myself collecting money every month from a poor woman with a son and dachshund.”

  Laurie smiles. “That is tough to picture.”

  “Maybe I can make up the difference by charging Simon the German shepherd double my normal fee.”

  She nods. “I think he’d be fine with it.” Then, “Does this mean you’re taking the case?”

  “He said he’s been running for fourteen years. One way or another we need to get him to the finish line.”

  “I love you, Andy.”

  “As well you should.”

  Simon is looking good this morning.

  Corey must have taken him to the groomer yesterday in anticipation of his court appearance, because he’s looking sharp and spiffy. Unfortunately, and the mistake is mine, I didn’t want him looking sharp and spiffy.

  We are arguing that he is not physically able to perform his job, so my preference would have been for him to look weak and haggard. But I failed to mention it to Corey, so that is on me.

  A big crowd is on hand; the gallery is filled to overflowing. That is no doubt the result of the publicity campaign we engineered, and it could possibly annoy Judge Markinson, who Rita said was already pissed off. Nothing I can do about that now.

  Sitting at the defense table beside me are Corey, Hike, and the aforementioned spiffy-looking Simon. He has his own chair and is sitting up on it attentively; I almost expect him to ask for a pen so he can take notes.

  At the opposing counsel’s table are three people. I only recognize one of them. She is Sara Hopson, a Police Department lawyer and, I am sure, the lead counsel. The other two people are either lawyers or paralegals; I’m not sure which and couldn’t care less. Sara will be in charge.

  Sara’s presence is ironic since I know her to be a dog lover. I know that because she and her husband adopted a Lab mix from our Tara Foundation, the dog rescue organization that my former client Willie Miller and I run. Sara must not be happy to be here today, but it’s her job.

  Just before Judge Markinson comes in, Corey asks, “What do you think? Do we have a shot at this?”

  I shrug. “A puncher’s chance.” A snorting noise comes from the other end of the table; it could have been Simon but more likely Hike.

  Judge Markinson comes in and views the gallery with obvious displeasure before taking his seat at the bench. He sternly states that we are not conducting a “sideshow” and threatens to clear the courtroom if there are disruptions. It seems like a premature threat, but one that shows he is irritated by the publicity.

  Which means he is mad at me.

  Judge Markinson explains what is about to happen, that this is a hearing to determine whether our lawsuit has the merit to go forward. The Paterson PD has asked for a dismissal of our suit, and however the judge rules will indicate which way he thinks the ultimate verdict will be rendered.

  Before we begin, Sara asks that Simon be removed from the courtroom, citing courtroom rules that only service animals are permissible inside. What she really wants is to eliminate the media eating all of this up and taking our side.

  “Your Honor,” I say, “Simon is the definition of a service animal; he has served this community for his entire life. He is also the petitioner in this action and should therefore be entitled to be present. Lastly, he is not being disruptive and is completely house-trained.”

  A slight titter from the gallery stops when Judge Markinson gives the room his fierce stare. “I’ll allow Simon to remain, though I will revisit the decision if in fact he becomes a distraction.”

  Since we have brought the action, we are up first. I am going to call only two witnesses favorable to our position, one in the beginning and one at the end. In the middle, I will be calling one person from the opposition camp. I’ve given our witness list to the court in advance, so in that sense there will be no surprises.

  Our first witness is my vet, Dan Dowling. “Have you examined Simon?”

  “I have. A few days ago. I did a full workup, including blood work and a set of X-rays.”

  “Can you describe his physical condition?”

  Dowling nods. “In many respects it is quite good for a dog his age and with his life experience. But his hips are a significant issue and concern.” Dowling describes a deterioration and arthritis in the hips, a progressive condition, meaning it will become worse over time.

  “His bosses are set on transferring him to drug enforcement and detection, which will mean he will be on his feet all day, every day. How will that affect him?” I ask.

  “It will hasten the deterioration. I have no doubt he has discomfort now, and that will substantially worsen. It would be the opposite of being in his best interest.”

  I introduce videos of Simon taken five years ago, running in the park with Corey. Then I show another video of him running last week and ask Dowling to point out the differences in Simon’s gait, attributable to the hip issues. It is a dramatic way to show what has happened to him over the years.

  “Is it likely that his seven years of service to the department has contributed to the deterioration?”

  “I don’t think there’s any question about that. A German shepherd’s hips have just so much wear and tear in them. His lifestyle and profession would have to have caused considerable stress on them.”

  I ask a few more questions, then turn the vet over to Sara.

  “Dr. Dowling, is Simon capable of doing the job to which he is being assigned?”

  “I’m quite sure he is, at least right now. German shepherds are stoic.”

  “Do you have any way to know how the alleged problems with his hips have progressed over time?”

  “No, I’ve only examined him now.” Dowling then drops a mini-bomb. “I requested previous X-rays from the department, but was told they do not exist. That was disappointing on several levels.”

  She ignores that. “Are there medications that could help him?”

  “Definitely there are meds that could help with the discomfort, though not with the deterioration. Checking through the records, I was struck by the fact that he has not been given that medication. It should be prescribed immediately.” Dowling is killing Sara; I may have to nominate him as Witness of the Year.

  “Isn’t a common sign of pain in a dog a reluctance to eat?” she asks.

  “Often so, yes.”

  “Does Simon look malno
urished to you?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  The phone had not rung in almost fourteen years.

  Actually, it was the phone number that had not received any calls; the physical phone had been replaced six times. But its mission had never changed: it existed only to receive a call from one specific client.

  The phone belonged to Charles Arrant, and although it had not rung in almost a decade and a half, Arrant was not in the least bit surprised to see that streak come to an end. He devoured the news religiously, possibly because he was frequently the cause of it, so he knew exactly what to expect.

  That is not to say that there hadn’t been other kinds of communication between the caller and Arrant. Arrant had been receiving money, substantial money, frequently. And he had been facilitating connections between the caller and many of Arrant’s other clients. But everything had been done electronically, protected by encryption, not by personal contact.

  Arrant was in the hotel gymnasium on the exercise bike when the call came. Through the glass he could see the outdoor pool, shut down in deference to the onset of cold weather. He couldn’t see the indoor pool from that vantage point, but he made good use of it every day.

  He lived in hotels, a different one in a different city every month. He had not made a bed, cooked a meal, or paid a heat or water bill in a decade. Other people served him, and he paid well for the privilege.

  Arrant was known in his professional world as a specialist. He didn’t agree with the characterization because while a specialist by definition focuses on one type of activity, Arrant was the master of many. He had few clients, but whatever they wanted him to do, it could accurately be said that he specialized in doing exactly that.

  It should be noted that the name Charles Arrant no longer existed in any meaningful way in his life. He had not used it in more than a decade, ever since the first Red Notice had come out. Instead he used a series of identifications that were prepared by experts, and virtually invulnerable to exposure as the fakes that they were.

  He didn’t say Hello when he answered the phone; he remembered with a small smile that this client considered it a wasted word. “You’ve been following the developments?” the client asked, starting the conversation as if they talked every day.

  “I have.”

  “Get involved.”

  “I could use more specific instructions.” Arrant thought he knew what the client meant, but it was prudent to be sure.

  “Monitor the situation and report back to me.”

  “Understood.”

  There was no reason to discuss financial terms; money was never an object. There would not have been an opportunity to discuss them anyway, because as soon as Arrant said, “Understood,” the client clicked off.

  It was time for Arrant to get off the bike and go to work.

  My next witness is Lieutenant Thomas Quinto.

  Quinto is in charge of the K-9 unit and is Corey’s and Simon’s boss.

  “Lieutenant, can you please tell me department policy towards early retirement in the case of injury sustained on the job?”

  He seems confused. “You mean for dogs?”

  “I mean for police officers.”

  “If you’re talking about humans, it’s not really my area, but I believe that early retirement is often granted in cases like that. But dogs—”

  I interrupt, “Thank you. Does this summarize department policy, to your knowledge?” I offer into evidence a copy of a page taken from the Paterson Police Administrative Policies and Guidelines, handing copies to the court clerk, the judge, Sara, and Quinto.

  “I believe it does, yes,” Quinto says.

  “Can you point out to the court where it is mentioned that it only applies to human officers?”

  “Well, it just assumes.”

  “So it doesn’t specify that it only pertains to humans?”

  “Of course not; there would be no reason to. But they’re definitely talking about humans.”

  “Are you admitting to the court that the department engages in species discrimination?”

  “Come on…”

  “Is that a yes?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  “A canine is less of an officer of the law than his human counterpart?”

  “Let’s just say he’s different.”

  “Lesser?” I ask.

  Quinto thinks for a moment, looking for a way out. “In some ways.”

  “Has Simon performed his job well during his career with the department?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Heroically?

  Quinto shrugs. “I guess, but that’s what he has been trained to do. So…”

  “Ah,” I say, as if that clears it up. “It’s not a big deal that he is a hero because he’s had training. Wait a minute, don’t human officers have training as well? Or do they just show up one day and grab a badge?”

  “It’s a different kind of training.”

  I nod. “Because they are different skills. But you see dogs as lesser officers with lesser rights?”

  “In some ways.”

  “Do you remember an incident that took place three years ago, involving a bank robbery at First Savings and Loan?”

  He nods. “Yes. Simon trapped two of the thieves and it resulted in their capture.”

  I ask for permission to play a short video clip on the courtroom monitor. It’s a press conference, being conducted by Richard Melnicker, the Paterson chief of police.

  He is smiling as he answers a question from the assembled press. Standing behind him is Lieutenant Quinto, who is nodding as Melnicker speaks. “And special thanks goes to Simon, without whom this operation would not have been so successful. We value our canines as much as we value any of our officers; they work tirelessly and are heroes, as Simon demonstrated today.”

  “You were nodding in agreement with what the chief was saying?” I say.

  “I knew what he meant.”

  I nod. “Yes, it was fairly straightforward. Was the chief wrong?”

  “No.”

  “He was telling the truth as he saw it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lieutenant, why are you taking the position that Simon has to work one more year?”

  “It’s not my position; it’s department policy.”

  “There’s the handbook; can you show me the policy?”

  “It’s based on long-standing precedent.”

  “So dogs have previously applied for early retirement before and been denied?”

  “No, this is a first.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sara tries to rehabilitate him by pointing out differences in the way dogs and human officers are treated and dealt with. Basically, it is a recitation of what Quinto has always assumed to be department policy.

  We break for lunch, and I will use the time to get ready to wrap up our case. I feel like it is going well, if only because not a single member of the general public will want to see Simon forced into a job that will be painful and contribute to his deteriorating health.

  More important, not a single member of Paterson’s elected government will want to see the general public not get what they want.

  By the time I get done with them, mobs will be in the street chanting their demand:

  FREE SIMON GARFUNKEL!

  “He’s the best partner I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some great ones.”

  Corey is on the stand talking about Simon, who sits on his chair staring straight at his friend, though able to avoid blushing at the praise. I had told him not to show emotion, but said it was okay to wag his tail, and he’s doing that now.

  “Can you talk a bit more about that?” I ask. I generally avoid open-ended questions like that, even to friendly witnesses, but in this case I want to open a lane wide enough for Corey to drive a truck through.

  “Sure. He is always there, totally present and in the moment, every day. He never has a bad attitude
and never complains about anything. He is fearless; he would go through a brick wall to protect me and to do his job.

  “But more importantly, he’s my friend. He senses when I’m down, or upset, or scared, and he tries to make me feel better. And he does, every single time.

  “I love that dog, and I don’t want him to be hurting. He’s done so much for me, for this department, for this city, that he deserves to live out his days in style and comfort. He’s not a possession of the department; he lives and breathes and hurts and loves unconditionally. And anyone who says otherwise doesn’t know what the hell they are talking about.”

  I don’t say anything for a while; I don’t ask a question or make a sound. I just let Corey’s words settle into the courtroom; I would bet that not a person within the sound of his voice does not feel a clenching in their throat, or moisture in their eyes.

  Game, set, and match.

  Sara has no questions for Corey and changes her plans to call an officer in the Paterson PD Administration. He was going to talk authoritatively about department policy toward animals, which would now probably get him tarred and feathered by the gallery.

  Sara knows when it’s time to stop digging.

  Judge Markinson gives us the opportunity to make a summation, sort of a closing argument. Because we went first in presenting our case, Sara gets to go first in this stage:

  “Your Honor, I’m a lover of dogs; I have two of my own. I am also an admirer of them, and Simon is worthy of that admiration. I have seen canines in action, and I believe they love their job. We need them to do it, and they do it well.

  “But we have rules and policies in place, very similar to those in place throughout this country. They are not onerous, and they are not cruel. They balance care and compassion for the dogs with the needs of the community they protect.

  “I recognize that this may not be the popular position to take. In a perfect world everyone, human and canine, could retire when they wanted to and live a life of leisure. But the world does not work that way, and it’s in many ways good that it doesn’t.