“Assault,” I say.
“Where is he now?”
“On death row.”
“Andy, I sense there’s something unusual about this case.”
“You got that right.”
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?”
This is the greeting I get from Edna, who for fifteen years has been my secretary but who now insists on being called my “administrative assistant.” In neither role has Edna ever done any actual work, but as an administrative assistant she can do nothing with considerably more dignity.
Like all of us, Edna strives to satisfy her enjoyment drive, and she does so by doing crossword puzzles. She is the greatest crossword puzzler I have ever seen, and possibly the greatest who has ever lived. Just as art collectors seem to discover DaVincis or Picassos at flea markets or in somebody’s garage every month, in three hundred years crossword puzzle devotees will be finding long-lost Ednas and selling them for fortunes.
She is polishing off today’s New York Times puzzle when I walk in, and her surprise at seeing me is justified. I haven’t been here in at least a week.
“We’ve got a client,” I say.
“How did that happen?”
Her tone is somewhere between baffled and annoyed. “I was in the right place at the right time. Come in with Kevin when he gets here.”
I head back to my private office with a window overlooking the finest fruit stand on Van Houten Avenue in Paterson, New Jersey. If I ever blow my money, it’s not going to be on office space.
I use the time to look through some law books and browse on the computer, finding out as much as I can about dog law in New Jersey. What I learn is not encouraging; if there’s a dog lover in the state legislature, he or she has been in hiding.
I’m fifteen minutes into finding absolutely no protections for canines under the law, when Kevin and Edna walk in. As soon as they sit down, I start in.
“Our client is a dog named Yogi, who is currently at the shelter. He’s scheduled to be put down the day after tomorrow.”
“Why?” Kevin asks.
“He’s alleged to have bitten his owner.”
Kevin shakes his head. “No, I mean why is he our client?”
I shrug. “Apparently, no other lawyer would take his case, probably because he sheds. What do you know about dog law?”
“Nothing,” Kevin says.
“Then you take the computer and I’ll take the books.”
“Do I have to do anything?” Edna asks, openly cringing at the prospect.
I nod. “You might want to get some biscuits. We’ll need them when we meet with our client.”
Edna goes out, and I explain the details of Yogi’s situation to Kevin. We then spend the next hour and a half researching the law. Kevin is far better at this than I am, and my hope is that he’ll come up with something.
He doesn’t. “Yogi’s got big problems,” he says.
He explains that the animal control system’s regulations prohibit them from letting anyone adopt a dog who has bitten someone. It is considered a matter of public safety, not reviewable under any statute. Under certain conditions the owner can take the dog back, but Yogi’s owner doesn’t want him. Nor would we want Yogi to go back to someone who was kicking him.
“Andy,” Kevin says, “are we sure the dog isn’t really dangerous?”
I nod. “I’m sure. I looked into his eyes.”
“You always told me you never make eye contact,” he says.
“I was talking about with people.”
“Oh. Then, are we sure the dog actually bit the guy?”
I nod again. “Apparently so. The neighbor said the guy was kicking him, so…”
Kevin notices my pause. “So…?” he prompts.
“So… it was self-defense.” I’m starting to get excited by what is forming in my mind. “Yogi was a victim of domestic violence.”
“Andy, come on…”
There’s no stopping me now. “Come on, the dog was being abused. He couldn’t call 911, so he defended himself. If he was the guy’s wife, NOW would be throwing him a cocktail party.”
Kevin is not getting it. “If the male dog was the guy’s wife?”
“Don’t focus on the sex part,” I say. “We’ve got a classic abuse-excuse defense here.” I’m referring to the traditional defense used by abused wives who finally and justifiably turn violently against their husbands.
Kevin thinks about it for a moment, then can’t hold back a grin. “It could be fun.”
“The hell with fun,” I say. “We’re going to win.”
Now with a strategy to work with, we spend another couple of hours plotting how to execute it. This defense, when the client is a dog, is obviously not something the justice system or the legislature has contemplated, so there is little for us to sink our teeth into. We’re heading into uncharted territory with few bullets in our legal guns.
Kevin heads down to the courthouse to file for injunctive relief on Yogi’s behalf, which essentially amounts to a request for a stay of execution. The court does not have to see merit in our position to grant it; it need only recognize that not granting it would result in Yogi’s death, which would in effect be ruling against our overall case before we’ve had a chance to present it. Pleading self-defense on behalf of a dead client is not a terribly productive use of anyone’s time.
After his stop at the courthouse, Kevin is going to attempt to interview Warren Shaheen, the man with Yogi’s teeth marks in his legs. Kevin will get his side of the story and try to persuade him to see the merit of our position. Shaheen may well not want to get taken through the torture I’ve got planned for him, and Kevin is going to suggest some alternatives that we’ve come up with.
The first hurdle we’ll have to overcome is to get a judge to consider our request tomorrow, the scheduled last day of Yogi’s life. I head home to think about that problem in the way that my mind functions most clearly. I take my own golden retriever, Tara, for a walk in Eastside Park.
Tara’s official name has changed a few times over the years. Right now it is Tara, the Greatest Creature on This or Any Other Planet and if You Can’t See That You’re an Idiot, Carpenter. It’s a little long, but apt.
I rescued Tara more than eight years ago from the same shelter that currently houses Yogi. Just looking at her now, enjoying the sights and smells as we walk through the park, easily reaffirms my commitment that I will never let another golden die in a shelter, not if it takes every dollar I have. Fortunately, it doesn’t.
Tara and I pass a number of our “dog friends” as we walk. These are the same people, walking their dogs, that we meet almost every time we’re in the park. I don’t know any of the people’s names, and we merely exchange pleasantries and minor canine chitchat, yet we have a common bond through our love of our dogs.
Each one of these people would be horrified to know of Yogi’s plight, and I don’t share it with them. At least not now. But I do come to the realization that my only hope lies in sharing it with all of them.
Yogi is about to become famous.
I call my friend Vince Sanders, editor of the local newspaper and the most disagreeable human being I have ever met. As a terrific journalist, he will take a heartwarming story and run with it, despite not having the slightest idea why it is heartwarming.
Vince’s long-suffering assistant, Linda, answers the phone. “Hey, Linda, it’s Andy. What kind of mood is he in?”
“Same as always,” she says.
“Sorry to hear that,” I say, and she tells him I’m on the phone.
“Yeah?” Vince says when he picks up. “Hello” and “good-bye” are not part of his verbal repertoire.
“I’ve got a big story for you,” I say.
“Hold on while I try to come to terms with my excitement,” is his deadpan answer.
I tell him to get a photographer and meet me at the animal shelter. He doesn’t want to, but he trusts me a little from past stories, so he considers it. I clos
e the deal by promising to buy the burgers and beer the next time we go to Charlie’s, our favorite sports bar.
I drop Tara off at home and then go down to the shelter. Vince hasn’t arrived yet, so I use the time to bring Fred up to date on the situation. I think he likes what he’s hearing, because every few sentences he claps his hands and smacks me on the back.
When I’m finished, he says, “You think you can pull this off?”
I nod. “I’m most worried about the timing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got to get the judge to move much more quickly than judges like to move. I don’t want anything to happen to Yogi in the meantime.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Fred says. “I’ve got a hunch I’m not going to be able to find my syringes.”
He’s telling me that he won’t put Yogi down on schedule, at least not until he’s heard from me. He’s taking a risk, particularly since this will be a well-publicized case, and I appreciate it. As will Yogi when he hears about it.
Vince and his photographer arrive, and I explain the situation to them. When I’m finished, I take them back to the quarantine area. “This is him?” Vince asks. “This is the big story?”
“It’s a human interest story, Vince. Which means that if you were an actual human, you’d have an interest in it.”
Fortunately, Vince’s photographer is a dog lover, and he eagerly gets to work. I make sure that all the pictures are taken through the bars of the cage; I want Yogi’s miserable situation to be completely clear in each photograph.
When he’s finished, he shows Vince the picture he thinks is best, and we both agree. It captures Yogi perfectly and dramatizes the injustice of his plight.
Tomorrow that picture will be everywhere, because Yogi is about to become America’s dog.
SOMETIMES THINGS COME together perfectly.
It doesn’t happen often; usually something can be counted on to go wrong. Murphy didn’t become famous by passing a bum law. But when everything goes right, when a plan is executed to perfection, it is something to be cherished.
The voracious twenty-four-hour cable, Internet, blogging media is onto Yogi’s story before Vince’s paper even physically hits the newsstands. The idea of a dog taking refuge in the abuse-excuse defense is just the kind of thing to push more significant news to the side, and it certainly does exactly that here.
I wake up at six a.m. and turn the television on. There on CNN is Yogi’s beautiful, pathetic mug, with the graphic across the bottom asking “Stay of Execution?” Their details are sketchy but accurate, having already gleaned from Vince’s story the main facts, including our legal actions.
The phone starts ringing, as I knew it would, and I find myself fielding calls from what seems like every media outlet in the free world. My standard response is that I will have a great deal to say on this later, and I arrange late morning interviews to take place at the animal shelter with the main cable networks. I have appeared on all of them as a celebrity legal commentator at various times during the past two years, so my involvement with this case provides a level of comfort for them to cover it.
I finally make it into the shower, and I spend the endless minute waiting for the conditioner to sink in, by happily reflecting on how perfectly this is going. In less than a day, I’ve made an entire country, or at least the media of an entire country, sit up and take notice.
I am Andy, the all-powerful.
The phone rings as I’m turning the water off, and I decide to ignore it. I’ve already done enough to reach saturation coverage, and I’m not going to have time for any more.
I let the machine pick up, and after a few seconds I hear a woman’s voice. “Andy, it’s Rita.”
The caller is Rita Gordon, the clerk at the Passaic County Courthouse, and the only reason that venerable institution operates with any efficiency at all. I once had an affair with Rita that could be characterized as brief, since it lasted only about forty-five minutes. But those were forty-five great minutes.
I pick up the phone. “Rita, sorry I screened the call. I thought you were Katie Couric.”
I don’t think Rita and I have ever engaged in a conversation that was not dominated by banter of some sort. Until now. “Andy, Hatchet wants to see you right away.”
That one sentence renders obsolete all my gloating about the perfection of my legal and public relations effort. “Hatchet was assigned this case? Is that what you’re telling me?” I ask.
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
Judge Henry Henderson has been called “Hatchet” for as long as I can remember. One doesn’t get nicknames by accident, and they are generally quite revealing. You won’t find demure librarians named Darla “the Sledgehammer” Smiley, or nannies dubbed Mary “the Exterminator” Poppins. And there won’t be many professional wrestlers with names like Brutus “Little Kitten” Rockingham.
Legend goes that Hatchet got his name by chopping off the testicles of lawyers who annoyed him. My belief is that this is just urban myth, but that doesn’t mean that if given the opportunity I would want to rummage through his desk drawers.
“How pissed is he?” I ask.
“I would say somewhere between very and totally.”
“When should I come in?” I ask.
“Let’s put it this way. If you’re not here by the time I finish this sentence, you’re late.”
By that standard, I’m late for my meeting with Hatchet, but not by much. I’m down at the courthouse and ushered into his chambers within a half hour of receiving the call. Since the courthouse is twenty minutes from my house, that’s pretty good.
Hatchet keeps his office very dark; the drapes are closed, and only a small lamp on his desk provides any light at all. If it’s meant to disconcert and intimidate attorneys, it achieves its goal. Yet if the stories I hear are true, I am less afraid of Hatchet than are most of my colleagues. For example, I haven’t pissed in my pants yet.
Hatchet etiquette requires letting him speak first, so I just stand there waiting for the barrage. Finally, after about thirty seconds that feel like three thousand, he looks up. “Do you know what time it is?” he asks.
I look at my watch. “Eight forty-five. I got here as soon as I—”
He interrupts. “Do you know how long I’ve been up?”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor, but I have no idea.”
“Four hours. My wife woke me at four forty-five.”
This is a stunning piece of news. Not that Hatchet has been up since early this morning, but that he has a wife. Someone actually sleeps with this man. I find myself picturing a female leaning over in bed and saying, “Hatchet, dear, it’s almost five a.m.—time to get up.” It’s not a pretty image.
“I assume this is somehow my fault?” I ask.
“She woke me to say that I cannot kill some poor dog. I assumed she was talking about an attorney, until she showed me what she was watching on the television.”
“She sounds like a very compassionate person, who doesn’t sleep much,” I say.
Hatchet takes off his glasses and peers at me. “Are you trying to turn my court into a circus? A sideshow?”
“No, sir. Never. Definitely not. No way.”
“Then why are you representing a dog?”
“Because if I don’t, he’ll be killed. And that would be unjust. And it would make many people unhappy, including me and Mrs. Hatch—Henderson.”
If he is going to kill me, this is the moment. He doesn’t say anything for about thirty seconds; it’s possible he’s so angry that he’s unable to unclench his teeth. He finally speaks, more softly and calmly than I would have expected. “I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but I’m going to issue a stay of execution. I am scheduling a hearing in this court tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. It is a hearing that I do not want to take more than one hour, and I will be conveying that view to certain city officials. Is that understood?”
It’s completely understood, an
d I say so. I leave Hatchet’s office, my dignity and testicles intact, and head down to the shelter to conduct the television interviews.
This won’t be officially resolved until tomorrow, but I now know one thing with total certainty: Yogi and I have already won.
I say this because we have surmounted the only serious obstacle that was in front of us. Mostly through the use of media pressure, along with a creative defense, we have gotten the legal system to give us our day in court. In a normal situation, we would now have to defeat our legal adversaries.
But the reason we’ve already won is that we don’t have any real legal adversaries. Simply put, we want to win, and there’s no one who will want us to lose. Nobody gains if Yogi is killed in so public a fashion, and there isn’t a politician in Paterson, in New Jersey, in America, or on the planet Earth who would want to be responsible for it.
The afternoon media interviews are a slam dunk; I’m not exactly bombarded with difficult questions. This makes for a great story, and the press will willingly help me promote it. Besides, all I have to do is keep pointing to Yogi and asking as plaintively as I can why anyone would want to end his life.
The most interesting piece of information comes from one of the reporters, who asks if I’ve heard the news that the mayor of Paterson is at that moment meeting with his director of Animal Services to discuss this matter. I would imagine the “discussion” consists of the mayor screaming at the director to find a way out of this.
I’m not going to get overconfident and let up, but my guess is that by tomorrow, Yogi will be dining on biscuits at my house.
I wonder how Tara is going to feel about that.
KEVIN MEETS ME at the diner for breakfast to go over our strategy.
He also brings me up to date on his conversation with Warren Shaheen, the alleged owner and victim of the vicious Yogi. Shaheen told Kevin that he has been asked to be at court today by the animal control people, but Kevin doubts he’ll show. Mr. Shaheen is apparently not enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame, and was clearly frightened when Kevin told him that when I latch on to his leg in court, it’s going to hurt a lot more than when Yogi did it. Faced with that prospect, he was more than happy to go along with whatever Kevin said was necessary to make it end.
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