Play Dead

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.